


Sacrifice

by skiesovergideon



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Miscarriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-28
Updated: 2012-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-28 08:25:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/305863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skiesovergideon/pseuds/skiesovergideon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following the Blight, the King and Queen of Ferelden attempt to ensure Ferelden's future by way of an heir.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A quick note: This fic is rated M for a reason. It deals with very heavy and very mature themes related to infertility and difficulties during pregnancy, among other things. While by no means a gauntlet meant to test your will and your ability to control your gag reflex, it will be intense and triggery for some. As such, I've opted to include warnings at the beginning of every chapter. It is not my intent to ruin anyone's day with the triggering content in this fic.
> 
> WARNINGS: gratuitous violence and a fairly graphic depiction of miscarriage.

"Your Majesty, a word?"

Since it was only Eamon in the receiving hall, well, Eamon and some guards, Alistair sank back into his throne, his very _uncomfortable_ throne, with an audible groan and pressed his thumb and forefinger against his temples. "Yes, Eamon?"

It had been a long day. But, then again, all days were long days, and Alistair found himself missing the grueling treks across the length and breadth of all Ferelden. He missed the frigid nights and the hard ground and the terrible food because they came part and parcel with something he had none of anymore: time to himself.

When he fell into bed at night, he barely had the energy to make love to his wife. And he _really liked_ making love to his wife.

Eamon cleared his throat, catching one wrist in his hand behind his back, and Alistair recognized that position. It was the way Eamon held himself every time he said something he thought was important. "A number of the banns have expressed concerns regarding the fact that your queen has yet to produce an heir."

Alistair bristled immediately, annoyed that the banns saw fit to drop the blame entirely on Elissa. But he kept that annoyance to himself. "It's hardly been a year, yet," he returned, rubbing his temples and withholding a sigh of aggravation.

"It would go well with you to assure the people of the… stability of the Theirin dynasty."

Dropping his hand, Alistair rose. He swept down the dais toward Eamon, a scowl on his face as he went. "The _people_ love Elissa." They did. They adored her, their hero. "And we haven't even been married three months."

"Still, Alistair—" Eamon only called him by his name when he was wheedling. "—it would go a long way toward reassuring everyone if you and your lady wife were to… ah, conceive."

"I'll bring it up with her," Alistair grumbled, and he stepped around Eamon, heading toward the long corridor that would, eventually, lead him to his suite of rooms.

Inside, a fire roared cheerfully, spreading heat throughout the room, and Elissa lay before it. Curled on one side, eyes closed, and a book half open in her hand, she was wrapped in a thick blanket and looked utterly content. Alistair moved quietly across the floor to crouch by her side, and he pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead.

Her closed eyes opened as he drew back, and she gave him a brilliant smile. "Good evening," she said, her voice thick with dreams and sleep.

"Good evening. Did you enjoy your nap?" He settled on the floor beside her, working his boots off his feet while she sat and stretched. The blanket fell away from her body, and for a moment, the thin shift she wore under it arrested all his attention.

She laughed when she noticed his gaze, lightly swatting his arm, and then she leaned forward, helping him with the buttons of his fancy, stuffy, scratchy doublet.

"Trying to get me naked so quickly?" he asked, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

With a moue of irritation, she pulled away. "No." The irritation melted into upset, and she groaned, drifting further away to press her face into her hands and hunch into her blanket. "Sorry. I'm just…"

"Tired." Alistair brushed a lock of hair from her face. "It's alright, love. We're both tired."

But when they finally retired to bed after a private meal, Alistair reflected that his wife's fatigue seemed bone deep. Rolling over, he curled around her sleeping form, brushing his lips over her shoulder. He wanted to protect her from herself but knew better. Telling her not to do something only meant her efforts would redouble. Perhaps Leliana… or even Zevran…

He pushed thoughts of their old companions from his mind. They were not in Denerim. He could not go to them for help. Wynne, though. He could speak with Wynne.

* * *

Elissa woke well past the dawn bell. In fact, it was the peals of third bell that roused her, and she groaned. Midmorning's sunlight slipped through the glazed windows – a luxury, Elissa knew. But better the greenish glass than simple wooden shutters. The glass did a better job at keeping the frigid, late autumn winds out.

Her maid, little Amethyne, knelt before the fireplace opposite the bed, stoking the fire in an effort to keep the room warm.

With a smile, Elissa sat, intending to tell Amethyne not to worry. The room was warm enough, and, truthfully, she had taken Amethyne as her maid not to actually but her to work but to get her out of the alienage. She was a bit young yet to be a maid, but Amethyne didn't want charity. She managed simple skills well enough, so Elissa saw no harm in paying her for her work.

Unfortunately, as Elissa rose, she was swept with a wave of nausea. She groaned, taking long, deep breaths to steady her rebellious stomach.

"My lady?"

"I'm fine." Elissa waved Amethyne's reaching hands away. "I didn't eat enough last night, that's all."

"Would my lady like me to fetch breakfast? There are three courses of fish, if you'd—my lady!"

Elissa lurched out of bed, scrambling across the frigid flagstones to the chamber pot. It was empty until she vomited bile into it, the very thought of eating fish turning her stomach fiercely. She gasped, shaking as chills seized her body, and threw up again.

Poor Amethyne stood to the side with wide, uncertain eyes, waiting for Elissa to still. "M-my lady?"

"A robe," Elissa said, spitting into the chamber pot. Her skin prickled with gooseflesh, and she shook as she slid into the robe Amethyne provided for her. "Thank you. And, no, I don't think I'll be having fish." Her stomach groaned in woeful agreement. "But maybe bread. And some wine."

It took Amethyne some time to procure the food, and while she was gone, Elissa curled up with her woolen blanket before the fire, warming herself. Another serving girl came in to deal with the soiled chamber pot, and Elissa wondered at herself as she waited for Amethyne to bring the bread.

She couldn't afford to fall ill, but she supposed that must be the cause for her fatigue and nausea. With a disgusted sigh, she dragged her hand through her tangled hair. She hated being sick, hated feeling weak and useless. And Alistair didn't need a sickly queen. The last thing either of them needed was the nobility questioning her physical fitness. They were already reaching a boiling point because she wasn't pregnant.

"We have time," she told the flames. "At least another twenty years to try."

Then Amethyne was back, and Elissa ploughed through the bread and wine, suddenly famished, devouring more than enough for a woman of her size. She was grateful for the servants' acceptance of her and husband's tendency to consume enough food to feed a small army without question.

The remainder of her day passed uneventfully. She dressed for court and sat beside her husband to hear petitions from the people of Denerim. They met with Gallaghar Wulf, Arl of West Hills, over lunch and discussed how best to help him rebuild. In the end, he was placated by Elissa's promise to take a taskforce to his arling and remove the remaining darkspawn presence.

"I don't want you to go," Alistair said that night, curling his hands about her shoulders as he pulled her back to his chest. "I'll miss you."

She took his hands in hers, clasping them together over her heart. "I'll miss you, too. But you can't keep me locked up in this tower all to yourself."

"Says who?" His petulant tone made her smile, and she gasped when he swept her into his arms and spun them about. "Perhaps I will simply barricade the doors and windows." He tossed her onto the bed, and she laughed, opening her arms for him, reaching for him. He jumped onto the bed beside her, grabbing a pillow and pushing it against her chest. She tumbled back and snatched up a pillow of her own, batting him in turn. "You will be my prisoner!" he declared, rising on his knees to bring his pillow down against her shoulder.

"I say thee nay, foul knave!" Elissa shimmied back, slipping on the silk coverlet of their bed. He grabbed her ankle and pulled her to her back, and she battered him with her pillow. "I will fight you until the very end!"

"But I have ways of making you give in." He gave her a fiendish grin as he raised her ankle to his mouth and pressed a kiss against her skin.

Her playful mood fled, leaving behind searing desire. When she left, she'd be gone for weeks.

After a year traveling with him, she couldn't imagine being alone. A contingent of Denerim's soldiers wasn't the same. Sergeant Wilkes – who Alistair would insist go with her as, in his opinion, the only competent man on the king's guard – was not Sten for all his stoicism. And Ser Driscole's charm lacked the sparkling quality that drew Elissa so soundly to Alistair. Oghren might come, she thought, and that would make it a bit easier.

But only a bit.

"Alistair," she breathed, sitting and pressing a hand to his cheek. He leaned into her touch, his eyes closing briefly before opening again.

Gently, he set her foot on the bed, and he drew her into his lap, her legs wrapped around his waist. Their foreheads touched, their noses brushing, and she studied him, watching his expressive eyes. He watched her in turn as their breath mingled in the scant space between their lips.

They held each other until her toes began to tingle with numbness, and then he stretched her across their bed, stripped her of her shift, and loved her with his mouth and hands and body.

* * *

Rain poured down on them, a continuous deluge that started a day out of Denerim and persisted for the duration of their journey. It was a week from Denerim to West Hills, and they spent it wet and miserable.

"With the rain, there is no chance of _birds_ ," Shale observed, tilting her head back to observe the steady downpour.

Elissa hunched her shoulders, dragging her cloak more tightly about her body as she suppressed the urge to shiver. For three days, she'd been cold. Now, on the fourth day, her body shook and trembled whenever she relaxed, and though she feared a fever, she said nothing, suffering in silence. No one could afford her weakness.

"For that, it should be grateful."

"I'd take birds over rain," Elissa replied, trying to sound cheerful in spite of her misery. It could be worse, she figured. When Oghren announced his intent to travel with her, Shale, recently returned from Tevinter with Wynne, refused to be left behind. Their party was small, numbering only six, but between her old friends, Wilkes, Driscole, and Cauthrien, there was no need to worry. They were more than prepared, come bird or darkspawn.

Grunting, Oghren swung his mace from one shoulder to the other, keeping an easy pace with her on her left. "Still wish we'd brought that beast of yours." Between him and Shale, Elissa could almost pretend they were still hunting the Archdemon. And while she was glad it was dead and gone, she missed her friends.

It was easy to imagine Alistair followed them, keeping an eye out for bandits or darkspawn coming upon them from behind.

"Rabbit is not a beast."

"We'd move faster if you'd just let me—"

"It's for your own protection I say no, you know."

"But he'd be a—"

"No."

"The drunkard is surprisingly persistent."

Elissa hunkered further into her cloak and resisted the urge to rub at her forehead. It wouldn't relieve the burgeoning pressure, wouldn't ease the headache. It would only bring questions. Even though he walked behind them, Wilkes was observant enough – and attuned enough to her moods – that he'd know something was wrong. He'd call a stop at best, turn them back at worst. She needed to press on. "Oghren is convinced that if we trained our Mabari to pull chariots, our armies would be unstoppable."

"I am pleased the mongrel is not here. It is only a step above pigeons."

"And I'm just saying you should let me try."

From behind, Wilkes said, "Rabbit would bite off your manhood and bury it in the palace gardens if you tried," and that was the end of that.

The party lapsed into a silence that lasted much of the afternoon. Even when they shifted positions around Elissa, protecting her, to her irritation, they said nothing. They moved fluidly, unconsciously, though Shale remained a steady constant on her right. She supposed it was practical. Shale, to Elissa's immense relief, saw no reason to treat her differently because she was Queen-Consort to the king of Ferelden.

They'd had a brief conversation before leaving, Shale admitting she wasn't sure how to address Elissa because _it was no longer the Grey Warden_. Elissa smiled and said _it_ was good enough for her.

The night before they were to arrive at West Hills, Cauthrien approached Elissa as she dressed a rabbit for their stew. "My l—my queen. May I join you?"

Elissa gave her a fleeting glance before returning to her work. "Of course, Ser Cauthrien. And you know you can just call me Elissa."

Though she did not watch Cauthrien, she was very aware of how tentative the knight was as she sat beside Elissa on the cold, hard ground. She felt Cauthrien's eyes on her hands as she went about skinning the rabbit, and it made her stomach flutter just a bit. She hadn't dressed dinner in nearly nine months, and though her hands were sure, she couldn't help but feel Cauthrien might be judging her skill.

"I simply wanted to thank you, your hi—Elissa. I wanted to thank you. For this opportunity."

"Should we lock you in a dungeon for the rest of your life just because you followed Loghain's orders?" Elissa asked, turning the rabbit over. "That's foolish. You're a skilled knight."

Cauthrien shifted slightly. "You had no way of knowing I would be loyal to you."

Elissa turned to her, a puzzled expression on her face. "Why did I need to know that? You were _always_ loyal to Ferelden." With a fleeting smile, she returned to her work. But her body leaned toward Cauthrien, turned just the slightest bit to face her. "And Alistair insisted I take the best of the king's guard with me." She pulled a face. "As if I can't take care of myself."

Examining the skinned body of the rabbit, she turned it over in her hands to gut it. " _And_ it presents a good political face," she continued. "It would be… bad, I suppose, if the Bannorn or any of the arls thought we lacked unity."

Cauthrien murmured her agreement, and they lapsed into a silence that surprised Elissa. It wasn't tense or awkward, merely companionable, and she thought she might have been Cauthrien's friend had the situation in Ferelden been different. As it was, she saw no reason for them to be anything less than polite.

"Can you still sense the darkspawn?"

The question wasn't unexpected – Oghren had asked much the same the first night out – and Elissa was a bit surprised it hadn't come sooner. Nodding, she began to strip the rabbit's meat from its bones, adding the hunks to the simmering vat of stew over the fire. "I can." She tapped the side of her head with her knife. "There aren't any close, though, if that's what you meant."

She felt more than she saw Cauthrien withdraw, and she scrambled to correct herself, wondering if there had been something unpleasant in her tone. "I'll let you know if there are, of course. Elissa Cou—Theirin, nothing more than a glorified darkspawn locator." She smiled, hoping that would diffuse whatever tension she'd accidentally created.

Shale approached from behind and dropped to the ground, hard, beside her and Cauthrien. "It is also very hard to feed," she said, disdain dripping from her voice.

Elissa clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, tossing the last bits of rabbit into the stew. "A full Grey Warden is a happy Grey Warden. Oh, and I found what I think is an augmentation crystal earlier." She tilted her head to her pack. "Would you like to see after dinner?"

"Is it an ice crystal?"

"I think so."

"Most excellent. The white will bring out my eyes, doesn't it think?"

Elissa laughed. "Without a doubt." She glanced at Cauthrien, who looked simply stunned, and offered her a pat on the shoulder. "Shale and I enjoy dressing up."

" _Its_ idea of dressing up is woefully lacking in style." Shale flicked a small rock and sent it flying into Oghren's back, ricocheting off his armor with a loud clang.

He spun about, Elissa and Cauthrien looking anywhere but at him while Shale pulled an expression that approximated a self-satisfied grin. His expression soured and he returned to his conversation with Wilkes and Driscole.

She ate with Shale and Cauthrien, slowly prodding the reticent woman into conversation in the same way she doggedly pursued Morrigan and Sten once, picking at Cauthrien's walls to learn more about her. When they turned in for the night, Shale taking watch for no need of sleep, Elissa was glad Cauthrien was with them.

Asleep in minutes, her dreams chased away any lingering feelings of contentment as she fled deeper and deeper into the Deep Roads, Alistair seconds behind her. "Faster, faster!" he urged, his words coming in desperate pants.

Gore on her cheeks, on her chest and arms and legs, slipped into her armor, squished between padding and skin. Her legs burned. Her arms ached. Her daggers weighed as much as a two-handed axe, dragging her down, slowing her down.

 _Run run run run_ —

Darkspawn fell on them from above, leathery wings beating against her face – _darkspawn don't have wings_ – sharp talons ripping at her face. Alistair bellowed incomprehensible words of rage, and she tried to strike against the darkspawn, but her sword passed through them. Mist and mocking laughter constituted their bodies, icy hatred their grasp, and she shook and shivered as the hurlocks grabbed her and pushed her to the ground.

Flesh against her mouth, in her mouth, hands making her chew as they ripped and tore at her armor. Naked skin against sharp rocks and nothing but pain and agony, never ending, always present, her insides twisting and changing, her skin mottled and rotted. They bled her joy from her body, ripped her happiness from her flesh, and choked her on sorrow and despair.

Vile darkness blanketed her mind, thick and heavy sludge blanketing her thoughts and pulling her down into bleak despair.

Rocketing upward, her fingers searching out the daggers under her pillow, she sucked in harsh gasps of air. And she _felt_ them, their presence digging sharp and broken teeth into her brain.

She nearly knocked her tent down as she burst out the front, casting her gaze about for the monsters. They slipped and slid over her consciousness, slick like oil. She smelled their rot, but couldn't discern whether the scent was in her head or real.

Shale stirred. "It is—"

With a scream of rage – _they would not take him from her, they would not have him, they would not have her, she would hunt them and their Archdemon until she was free of them, would cut and hack and slice and maim and ruin_ – she flung herself at the first hurlock, just outside the light of the fire.

She heard Shale shout something, but distantly, and she couldn't afford the distraction of looking back. Lashing out, she struck a hurlock across the throat, dipping under its arm as another ran at her. Ripping her weapon from its pestilent flesh with a wet, bubbling sound, she spun and drove the daggers into the next hurlock's chest, forcing them through its weak armor.

An arrow went through the throat of the next hurlock she turned on. It staggered and a spiked mace took it in the stomach, shattering its feeble armor and bringing it to the ground. Hopping over it, she spun, striking out with her blades to cut a genlock across the throat.

Oghren fell in beside her, moving ahead of her to shatter armor and knock the darkspawn down. Elissa danced after, her blades flashing, the firelight glinting off the cold metal. Bits of rock rained down on her before a boulder crashed into a pair of genlocks attacking from the side, crushing them.

Darkspawn flooded the campsite. Their existence buzzed against her skull, a steady drone, like bees, fit to drive her mad. Each one that died brought a measure of relief, and so she applied herself to their destruction, refusing to relent. Her arms screamed as drove her blades into another one, tore up a second, ripped into a third. Her lips moved. She could feel the stretch and pull, sensed the rumble of words in her throat, but felt entirely removed from the sensation of speaking. It was like her mind and her body were two separate and disparate things, joined only by a thin spark of life, some semblance of a soul.

"Not him, not him, not me, not ever."

The words slipped past her lips, sounding foreign. Alien. Her voice stuck in her ears, wrong and uncomfortable. Words didn't belong there. Gasped breaths did. Angry shouts. Screams of defiance and rage.

A hurlock slammed into her from behind, knocking the air out of her lungs. Hitting the ground hard, her knuckles tearing on dirt and rock, she flipped to her back in time to see Shale's fist connect solidly with the hurlock's head. Bone shattered and brain exploded over her face, coating her in blood and gore. Swatting the body aside, she rolled to her feet.

Someone called her name.

Had someone called her name?

Did it even matter?

She decided it did _not_.

More darkspawn died under her blades. Their blood coated her hands, her arms, her face and chest. It matted her hair against her head, stuck stray strands to the side of her face. But she did not slow and she did not stop until she felled the last hurlock, spun about, and threw her offhand dagger into the throat of the last genlock.

"Sodding _creepy_ when you do that," Oghren grumbled beside her.

The buzzing in her head died, the stupid little insects crushed and dead. Blissful silence.

But in that silence, she could hear everything else. Oghren's breathing. Shale's body grinding on itself when she moved. Driscole's breathing. Wilkes' breathing. Cauthrien's bre—

She whirled, lifting her dagger to strike. Cauthrien caught the blade on her greatsword, a look of surprise on her face.

"Battle's over, so you can calm your tits, woman."

Oghren's brash comment froze her, and for a moment, Elissa couldn't remember _why_ she should stay her blade even though she _knew_ she must. Then, with great and deliberate care, she drew away from Cauthrien.

One step.

Two.

A third and she dropped to the ground, body aching, and she pressed the heel of her hands into her eyes. "Sorry," she said to the ground. And then, "Thank you."

"You got that look in your eyes, is all," he said, and she knew which look he meant.

Lifting her head and lowering her eyes, she looked at the group. Shale and Oghren were nonplussed; they'd seen her that violently enraged before. In the Deep Roads, when they faced the Broodmother. Wilkes had seen hints of it. Sometimes, when she practiced with the castle guards, one would push her too far and she wouldn't be able to pull back from the urge to kill to protect herself. But Cauthrien and Driscole? They'd never seen her like that.

Irritation gnawed at her – self-directed irritation that had no outlet.

"We should pack up."

Oghren grunted. "On it, boss."

The other dispersed, too, Cauthrien giving her a lingering glance as Driscole clapped her on the shoulder and pulled her away. Shale came up to Elissa from the side as she stood, picking her way through the bodies to retrieve her dagger from the genlock's throat.

"It is not well."

"I'm fine, Shale." The lie came easy. She'd repeated it so many times now she almost believed it was true. To Shale, to Cauthrien, to Wilkes, to Furgus and Teagan and Eamon. To, the Maker help her, Alistair.

Pulling her blade free of the genlock's body, she wiped it on her filthy trousers, trying her best to ignore Shale's lingering presence.

"It lies."

Prickling, Elissa sighed. "I'm just—I'm tired, that's all."

"It sleeps." Shale sounded genuine, curious and concerned. Worried. But the concern rankled, and Elissa had to bite back a sharp reply. And she detested herself for it. "Does it need more rest?"

Composing her face into a bright smile, Elissa finally turned to Shale and shook her head. "No. I'm fine. I'll be fine."

As she packed her supplies in her rucksack, she repeated those three words to herself. _I'll be fine_. When she hoisted the sack onto her back, feeling the muscles in her lower back and her thighs screen in protest, she thought them again. _I'll be fine_. A dip in the road made her stumble, and Driscole caught her. "I'll be fine," she told him, lying through her teeth, each word a physical weight in her belly.

The words twisted and turned, made her ill and malcontent. The more she whispered them in her mind, the more she spoke them aloud, the more uneasy she became.

 _I'll be fine_ , her mind said.

Her body creaked and groaned. _Liar_ , it replied.

* * *

West Hills was Redcliffe revisited, set upon by darkspawn instead of the undead. Death hung heavy in the air, its stench clinging to every building and haggard person, but when Elissa and her party entered the village and came in sight of the Chantry – everyone always hid in the Chantries – people flooded the streets, cheering their names.

Routing the darkspawn took the better part of a week, culminating in the discovery of an entry to the Deep Roads. They promptly sent the town's fastest runner to Orzammar to request a seal for the gaping hole in the earth, and while they waited for him to return, the party ventured underground. Keeping the darkspawn at bay was not as tiring as it could have been, but it wore on her more than it should have. When the dwarves finally sealed the entrance, the townsfolk decided to celebrate.

Nauseas and uneasy, Elissa excused herself shortly after dusk fell. Her door shut, the world safely out, she stumbled to the bed and collapsed onto it.

Her body shook. Quaked. Every muscle throbbed, her bones ached. A vicious pounding in her head heralded the beginning of a headache with darkspawn teeth.

Dragging at the blanket, she pulled it over her body and fell into a restless, fitful sleep plagued by terrible dreams and fleeting visions of horror.

She woke in the dead of the night to cramps that felt like knives in her back. Groaning, she forced herself to her feet and to the small bowl of water in the corner of the room, beside the chamber pot. Her menses had never been regular, a product of her warrior training, the Highever healers said, so she knew to expect blood on her thighs when she stripped down.

But not so much.

Shivering – or was it shaking? She couldn't tell – she dropped to her knees. Bile rose in her throat along with the certainty that something was _very, very_ wrong.

Pain rippled through her abdomen, and she gasped. Her fingers curled in her discarded shirt and she yanked it close, biting down on a bunch of fabric to keep from crying out.

When her menses came – sporadically, sometimes only twice in a year – it was often painful, as though her body felt the need to make up for missed time. But this was… _not_ that.

A pathetic whine rose from her as she curled in on herself where she lay on the floor. Panic made her pulse pound, uncertainty made her breath come in sharp and uneven bursts. Fear turned her skin from fire to ice as her body tensed and spasmed.

"I'll be fine." She mouthed the words around the shirt as she squeezed her eyes shut. She whispered the words again, and then again, and the third time, when a clawed hand reached into her abdomen and _squeezed_ , she realized she was being an idiot.

Reaching out, she pressed her hands to the wall. Leaning against it, she climbed to unsteady feet. Her fingers curled around the edge of the little dresser beside her, and she clung to it when pain surged through her, knife sharp. But worse. This pain lingered. One thousand lacerations, slowly bleeding, all inside.

A hysterical laugh bubbled from her chest. Like being cut by a darkspawn from the inside out.

Maybe she was dying.

Twice, she tried to stumble across the room to the door. Twice, pain took her down and fear clogged her throat and darkened her vision. Panic made everything worse, tunneled her line of sight until all she could see was the hard wood floors immediately in front of her.

A quiet knock came at her door. "Your ma—Elissa?"

"Cauthrien?" Relief washed through her, and for a moment, nothing hurt. Safe. She was safe. Saved. "Cauthrien, plea—"

The pain came back, twice as biting, and she smothered a cry with her hand. For a moment, she didn't think Cauthrien would enter. Then the door was open, and Cauthrien was at her side.

"Maker's mercy."

Elissa didn't know what made Cauthrien's face white as snow. She didn't _want_ to know. Reaching out, she grabbed Cauthrien's wrist, groaning. She pressed one fist to her abdomen, as though that would somehow help. It didn't. It made her hurt more.

"Something's wrong," she said.

"You need a healer." Cauthrien hesitated. "I need to get you to a healer. This—" Elissa couldn't comprehend the look of fear and uncertainty on Cauthrien's face. "Let me get a blanket."

"Don't go." Maker, when had she become something so pathetic? Pain clawed its way across her abdomen, a painful, spasmodic ripple, and she had her answer.

Cauthrien tentatively patted her shoulder. "I'm not. I—I won't. I can't take you to the healer naked."

"I'll be fine." The lie came too readily.

But Cauthrien had already pulled away, leaving Elissa on the floor. She finally chanced a glance in the direction she'd come, and saw a dark stain smeared across the floor. Blood, she thought idly. Her blood, most likely.

How odd. It wasn't so disturbing to see her blood on the floor when she was consumed by fiery agony.

A blanket, scratchy wool, settled around her shoulders, and when Cauthrien swept Elissa into her arms, Elissa gasped and shook. "I've got you, my lady. You'll be fine, I've got you." The panicked edge to Cauthrien's voice did nothing to soothe Elissa. It made her feel worse, made her heart lurch against the cage of her ribs.

Cauthrien carried her into the hall and hesitated for a moment. Then she kicked on the door across from Elissa's, pounding it twice with the flat of her foot. It was bare. Cauthrien wasn't wearing a shirt, either, Elissa reflected as the wrenching pain became a dull, insistent ache. It didn't _sear_ through her, but it remained awful. She'd never felt anything like it, the indescribable twist of muscle.

The door opened, but no one stood there.

"The queen needs a healer," Cauthrien said to no one, and then they were moving. Cauthrien's gait was even. Steady. A gentle lope until she pounded down the stairs. Elissa wanted to tell her she'd wake people but took a moment to wonder at the absurdity of her own thoughts instead.

She wasn't quite sure when they arrived at the healer's, but there were suddenly more hands on her than Cauthrien's two, and the healer wore an expression she'd seen more than once. But she couldn't place it.

"It hurts," she told the healer.

"I know," the woman replied, running a hand over Elissa's sweaty forehead.

* * *

Cauthrien didn't leave the healing woman's hut. She didn't leave her queen's side. The Chantry's religion meant little to a woman whose god was her sword and whose prophet was her shield, but some niggling fear that this was a trial from the Maker to test her loyalty kept her rooted to the queen's bedside, holding her hand and offering what paltry comforts she could.

It was not an easy night.

Once the pain had passed and the healer changed the bed sheets, the queen slept and the healer explained to Cauthrien what had happened.

A miscarriage.

The whole castle – if not the whole of Denerim and Ferelden – knew how much the king and queen wanted a child. Needed a child.

Silent, Cauthrien accepted the news and said she would tell the queen when she woke.

The sun poured through the windows, bright and brilliant, before the queen stirred. She rolled over in the bed and winced. "I feel horrible," she croaked, pressing her fingers to her cheeks.

Cauthrien pressed her lips together. She'd practiced, in her head, exactly how she would tell the queen what had happened. But with the queen awake, wincing, the words she'd rehearsed seemed inadequate.

 _You've had a miscarriage. I'm sorry_.

"Cauthrien?"

"Shae." The queen frowned at her. "If I am to call you—" She stumbled slightly on the queen's name, still uncertain of the familiarity. "—Elissa, then you should call me Shae."

The frown melted into a warm smile. But the smile was strained around the edges and didn't reach the queen's eyes. All of the queen's smiles seemed to be like that. Half-formed. Forced. "Alright, then. Shae. I—thank you. For last night. I don't remember much of it after you came in."

Swallowing hard against the uncertainty, Cauthrien laced her fingers together. She looked everywhere but the queen's face, and she knew the queen noticed. "We're at the healer's. You—were bleeding when I found you." _Or else you had smeared blood across the floor. I couldn't see how much there really was, how much was fresh and how much was old_. "The healer did what she could." _There's no easy way. Just speak the words. Just speak_. "But she couldn't save the baby."

Her gaze fell on the queen's ashen face.

"I—I'm sorry. The baby?"

"You were pregnant. She believes no more than four months."

The queen, the Hero of Ferelden, had always seemed untouchable, existing on a tower and separated from the rest of humanity by a gulf filled by greatness. She'd seemed almost larger than life, beyond human things like fear or sadness. Or maybe that was just how the people saw her. How even Cauthrien saw her. She'd offered Cauthrien a chance to see the truth of Loghain's treachery, and few were so noble as to offer second chances. So maybe it was just Cauthrien's perception of her.

And that perception shattered, dashed to the ground. The tower crumbled, and the gulf became a crack.

Tears welled up in the queen's eyes, but her face reflected no sadness. Only horror and shock. Disbelief. "I—no. I would have known."

The shadows in the queen's eyes belied that lie.

Her hands fluttered to her face, dancing over her cheeks, her mouth, her eyes. The tears spilled from her eyes, but her expression remained frozen. Horrified. "I—I lost—the baby. We had a baby, and I—Maker, what did I _do_?"

Cauthrien watched the queen breakdown, watched the dismay overtake her. Her fingers dug into her hair, closed around her neck, pressed against her chest and then her belly. She flung the blanket off her body, staring at her bloodless thighs. The healer cleaned her. There were no outside signs of the miscarriage.

That, Cauthrien thought, must make it worse.

The queen let out a choked laugh. "I didn't want children, you know. Thought they'd just… just be a tool. For a husband to control me." Her hands slipped over her thighs, her eyes vacant. Detached. "But for Alistair, I thought maybe. Maybe it wouldn't be like that. I would imagine us together with a blond son with blue eyes. Or a golden-eyed girl. And I thought it would be alright. And then… then he told me… Grey Wardens have difficulty conceiving." The tears flowed freely, and the motions of her hands became mechanical.

"But we could try. We'd keep trying. The king needs an heir, and I—I wanted to give that to him. A part of myself. Something _real_." She laughed again as tears dropped from her face to her hands and the bed sheets.

Cauthrien remained still, unsure what to do.

"I didn't know. Maker help me, I didn't know." Elissa let out a gut-wrenching sob as she wrapped her arms around her midsection and tears marked wet trails down her cheeks. Her back shuddered as she gasped around her cries. White knuckled fingers dug into the skin of her back, but Cauthrien didn't move to stop her from damaging herself.

She knew what it was like to hurt so much you felt nothing at all. She knew that in those moments, it took something – anything – to remind you that you could feel _something_. Even if it was only _more_ pain.

"I'm so sorry," Elissa whispered between her broken sobs, her words laced with anguish. "I'm so sorry, I should have—I should never have come here. I should—Alistair, Alistair, I'm so sorry." Her words stopped with a final, heart-wrenching cry, one that hurt Cauthrien to hear.

The Hero of Ferelden was strong, like stone. Unyielding. Unbreakable.

But the Hero of Ferelden wasn't on the bed at her side.

Moving very, very slowly, Cauthrien shifted onto the bed, wrapped one arm around Elissa's shoulder, and drew her close.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Suicidal thoughts; a considerably less graphic (but still present) miscarriage; very frank discussions of sex, sexuality, and sexual practices.

They returned to Denerim with a merchant, Elissa riding with his wares. The healer cautioned her against walking, and Cauthrien had decided she ought not walk at all. Bundled in blankets, she spent the duration of the trip in silence. Her skin was warm but her heart was frozen. Each bump in the road threatened to shatter it. The world passed her by; she saw none of it, too lost in sorrow and self-loathing.

The rumors reached Denerim several days before they did, and when they arrived, Elissa felt the eyes. She felt the suffocating weight of their pity, and she saw the sympathy on their faces.

When she stood before the court to inform the king of their success, she heard the whispers, saw the glances the nobles exchanged. Eamon took a step forward.

"We have heard… worrisome tales about your majesty's health," he said, his brows drawn. She couldn't discern whether it was born of concern for her or concern for the kingdom. One was not the same as the other.

"I am perfectly well, thank you, Arl Eamon."

Alistair knew better. Alistair always knew. He might not say it, Maker bless him he knew when to stay silent, but he knew. With his elbow on his throne, his chin resting on his thumb and his fingers curled about his lips, with that considering face and thoughtful expression, there was no doubt in her mind that he knew.

The crown dismissed them, and they bowed before leaving the hall, Wilkes taking Cauthrien and Driscole with him while Elissa excused herself from Shale and Oghren. A bath, she said. She needed a bath.

The servants saw her into the bathing room, helping her out of her armor and into the spacious, tiled bath. After shooing them away, she closed her eyes. Floating on her back in the middle of the bath, her toes brushing one edge, her spread fingers touching two others, she felt weightless. Peaceful.

Still.

A breath in, a breath out.

She turned her face in the water, parting her lips to breathe through her mouth. Water filled her mouth, licking at her tongue, and she took long sips of air around it, rattling it. Little droplets hit the back of her throat.

A thought coalesced in the mists of her mind. A dark thought. A terrible thought. Dragging her fingertips across the surface of the water, she considered it. Considered rolling onto her front and breathing the water in.

Part of her recognized how stupid that was. Her death would only complicate things for Alistair, and she loved him too much to complicate things further.

Doubt picked at her mind.

 _I love him_ , she insisted.

But she couldn't help thinking the child she lost was the only one she would be able to conceive. The taint would spread through her, making it harder to have a child, she was sure. She had destroyed their one chance.

Maybe it would be better to free him from his obligation to her. Let him find another wife.

Rolling in the water, she sat on one of the submerged shelves and stared blankly at the tile floor of the bath. She exhaled slowly.

She pushed away from the shelf and sank under the water, closing her eyes. Her lungs burned as she opened her mouth. _Breathe_ , she told herself, but her body refused, paralyzed by fear.

She didn't want to drown. Of all the ways to die, she didn't want to drown.

Rising from under the water, she took a long breath and opened her eyes. Alistair sat on the edge of the bath across from her, his boots discarded, his breeches rolled past his knees. He smiled, the expression inviting, and Elissa pushed herself forward, between his legs, and she wrapped her arms around his stomach. He leaned over her, a strong fortress, a mighty wall, her stalwart protector. His arms banded about her, drawing her close, the warmth of his body creeping under her skin to melt the ice inside her in a way the hot water couldn't.

Her wet hair soaked his velvet doublet; her tears left darkened tracks down its front.

One of his hands brushed over the top of her head, stroking gently. "Don't cry," he murmured, kissing her cheek. "You weren't made to cry."

"I can't—I'm sorry, Alistair." She pressed closer to him, digging her fingers into his doublet.

"Come out of the bath, my dear." He slid his hands to her arms, tugging gently, urging her to move.

She pulled against him, refusing to cooperate, suddenly very aware of her nakedness. It had never bothered her before, but as he released her, confused, she sank into the water and crossed her arms over her chest, refusing to meet his eyes. "I'll be fine."

The world was silent for a moment. And then Alistair was in the bath, fully clothed, grabbing her close, holding her so tightly she thought he might absorb her. For a moment, her throat tightened, panic made her vision spotty.

"Elissa, Elissa," he whispered against her hair. "I—"

He stopped, cut himself off, and she would forever love him for it. No stupid, paltry words fell from his mouth, no empty promises, so claims to understand. He whispered her name again, momentarily tightened his hold on her, and she realized the cage of his body gave her strength.

When he swept her into his arms, she didn't protest. She pressed her face against his neck and he clambered out of the bath, somehow managing to keep her tight against him. A servant asked if they needed a towel, and he took one to wrap around her, bundling her up in it. He took the servants' corridors back to their room, a short trip, really, and when they were there, set her on the bed.

While he stripped out of his wet clothes and added two logs to the fire, she focused on breathing. And on what she could possibly tell him. He knew, obviously. Or, if he hadn't, he did now. She was sure he knew. He had to know. The thought of being wrong, of him _not knowing_ , filled her with an ice cold terror and strangled her breath in her throat.

He approached slowly, watching her with concern etched into every line of his face. He settled beside her, rubbing her arms before tugging the towel free of her body to dry her hair. Then he pulled her against him, trapped her body in his arms as he leaned against the headboard and held her.

"We heard the rumors," he said, his voice quiet and soft. "I didn't know what to believe."

She started to apologize, but he spoke over her.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there for you."

She balked. "You?" Peeling her cheek away from his shoulder, she stared at him, incredulous. "You didn't lose our baby. You're not the reason we—" A sob caught in her chest.

Warm hands cupping her cheeks, he drew her close and peppered gentle kissed on her forehead, her eyelids, her nose, and her cheeks. His mouth brushed the corner of her lips, but he didn't press for anything more – she didn't think she could _give_ him more; the idea of sex made her blood curdle with ice.

"We can keep trying," he murmured, stroking his thumbs over her jaw. "We'll try again."

Rage twisted her up inside, made her sick to her stomach with its intensity, and she exploded with it, wrenching away from him. "I don't _want_ to try again!" she shouted. Her body flushed with anger. Words leapt from her lips, uncontrolled and uncontrollable. "I want _that_ child!"

That wasn't true, not entirely.

"I don't want to keep trying! I don't want the pressure, Alistair. I hate how we have to _perform_ for them!" She paced in front of the bed, her hands clenched into fists, before whirling on him and jabbing a finger into his shoulder. "I never _wanted_ children! I _don't_ want children!" She sounded idiotic even to herself, half-mad and full of anger that had no outlet. A year ago, she would have channeled this into stabbing darkspawn. But now all she had were pretty dresses and fake fights.

"And what if we _never_ have another child! What then?"

There was the root of her anger: fear.

"Will Ferelden descend into another civil war? Will we be held responsible for it? Stave off a Blight, unite the country, and then leave it broken thirty years later when we die without an heir?"

Whirling, she continued to rage, shouting at him, at the walls, at Eamon and the world. At her dead parents, at Duncan – Duncan, who she _hated_ and _despised_ , for saving her. She should have died that night alongside her mother and father, should never have become a Grey Warden. Blaming Duncan for all her woes was easy. He was the beginning of all her troubles; if she died with her family, none of this would be happening. She wouldn't have problems. She'd be dead, and being dead was easy.

Alistair grabbed her wrists and pulled her flush against him, her hands held tightly between their bodies. "Enough, Elissa!" He was angry, too, and she sucked in a sharp breath, not entirely sure where his anger was coming from. She'd certainly given him enough reasons to shout back at her. "Enough. Please."

But he wasn't shouting.

Releasing her wrists, he held her, simply held her. Against her cheek, she felt the steady beat of his heart, and hers slowed to match it. His breath made his chest rise and fall, set the pace for her own breathing.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled, closing her eyes as the last of her anger left her. She felt, for the first time in days, gloriously empty. Blank. "For yelling. For—"

"Accepted." He cut her off before she could apologize for the child they'd never have. He took a deep breath and tilted her chin back, looking at her with worried eyes. "Do you remember Orzammar? After the Deep Roads?"

The question brought to mind a flash of memory, the brush of his mouth on the inside of her thigh, and she nodded.

"You said you loved me." His fingers slid into her wet hair, his thumb pressing against the base of her skull and alleviating a pressure she hadn't felt build. Sighing, her eyes drifted shut and she leaned against him. "And you told me you'd never expected it." Warm, gentle hands settled on her shoulders, kneading tension from her muscles. "So I told you I didn't expect anything from you."

Warm languor spread through her, and contentment chased at the emptiness. Guilt made her force the contentment down, made her fight it.

His lips brushed the shell of her ear. "No matter what you think, how you feel, you are no less a woman. You didn't fail me."

Something in her broke, and relief crashed down around her. That was it. That was the source of her fear, she realized; she had been terrified that he would discard her, that he would see her as a broken woman, a failure as a wife. Success as a warrior made her strong, but her devotion to that strength left little time to be what a woman ought to be – gentle, well bred. She couldn't dance. Needlepoint eluded her. The household servants came to her when they needed to know how many candles to order for the next month, and she hadn't the slightest. All those things women were supposed to know, the ways they were supposed to bring honor to their husbands, were beyond her. But she could still have children. Even if she didn't _want_ them, she could still _have_ them. Becoming a Grey Warden didn't change that thought; she was young and invincible, and maybe these things happened to other Grey Wardens, but they wouldn't happen to her.

And then they did.

"Come to bed, my dear." With kind hands, Alistair urged her onto the bed, tucking her under sheets and fur and silk coverlets. He joined her a moment later, catching her hands in his and kissing her knuckles.

"You don't have time for this," she said, frowning.

He shrugged. "Right now, I'm not a king. I'm a husband."

Shifting closer to him, she didn't wonder if that was a good thing, him putting her before his throne. She didn't think about duty or position. She kissed him once, chastely, and found contentment wrapped in his arms.

* * *

Two weeks later, in a heavy winter gown the color of evergreen needles, Elissa approached the door to Wynne's workshop.

Two guards stood outside the door, a templar and one of the king's guard, and Elissa smiled at them and greeted both by name. Mairtan Lochlain tipped his head to her, but the templar, a younger man by the name of Padrig, did not so much as move. Padrig took his job very seriously. The one time they'd spoken, he had said, in a stern and even voice, one that brooked no nonsense, that he would protect Wynne from the people of the palace as much as he would protect the people of the palace from her and that the king and queen need never fear him misusing his templar powers.

Rapping lightly on Wynne's door, Elissa slipped into the workroom and shut the door behind her. Wynne leaned over a long table covered in books and scrolls, a frown on her face as her fingers ran back and forth across lines of text.

"A moment," she said, leaning closer to what she read. Her eyes narrowed, and Elissa, knowing better than to interrupt Wynne when she focused so fiercely, turned her attention to the tables and bookshelves lining the walls.

She didn't recognize many of the books, but quite a number were by Brother Genetivi. With a fond smile, she pulled _In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of a Chantry Scholar_ from one shelf. On the inside of the leather bound cover was a note addressed to Wynne. She passed over it, paging through the book at her leisure, looking for passages that might catch her eye. Lingering on one page discussing the Harrowing – not in nearly enough detail, in her mind – she shifted the book to one hand and laid the other absently over her stomach.

That was, of course, how Wynne found her. Feeling the weight of eyes, Elissa turned her attention from the book to Wynne's table. Wynne was studying her, now, with no small amount of curiosity. "Your majesty."

The face Elissa pulled must have been a hideously amusing mix of annoyance, aggravation, and bewilderment, because Wynne burst out laughing. Pursing her lips, Elissa shut the book a bit harder than necessary and laid it on the shelf. "Wynne."

"Forgive me," she said around her laughter. "But your face—"

Elissa's lips quirked, a tiny smile tugging one corner of her mouth upward. "It's nice to know _someone_ can still laugh at me." She drifted toward Wynne's work table and settled on one of the stools beside it. "What are you working on?"

"Oh, nothing in particular." But Wynne began a lengthy explanation of her experiments anyway. Something about lyrium and its effect on a mage's ability to cast spells, how one could distill it to make it more potent. Elissa tried to keep up, but she found most of it went over her head. She knew the basic recipe to make lyrium potions – how many times had Morrigan snarled at her about needing a distillation agent instead of a concentrator agent? – but nothing else.

"—which is when I slew the High Dragon and saved all of Orlais."

Elissa blinked, swinging her gaze to Wynne. "I—what?"

Chuckling, Wynne turned to a side table and poured them both a glass of wine. "I knew you weren't listening. Oh, no, don't apologize." Her hands glowed with magic and she offered one of the glasses to Elissa.

Taking it, she let a mouthful of the warmed, spiced wine settle on her tongue, enjoying the sharp, full-bodied tang. "This is excellent. Where did you get it?"

"A bribe from Irving. He wants me to go back and teach a class on demons."

A frisson of fear coursed down Elissa's spine, and she wondered if she ought not tell Wynne her reason for visiting. "Are you going?" she asked, hiding her worry behind another sip of wine. She kept the goblet lifted, hiding her mouth behind it.

"Of course not." Wynne sounded affronted. "The minute he gets me back in the tower, he'll have me so busy I won't ever leave again." One brow lifted. "I have no intent of spending the rest of my days there." She lifted her goblet as if to toast Elissa. "And who can say if the Hero of Ferelden won't have need of a senior enchanter in the future." Setting the goblet down, she came around the table and leaned against it beside Elissa's stool. "Now, tell me why you've come to visit."

Her words caught in her throat. Asking for help from Wynne should have been easy – asking Wynne was always easier than asking Morrigan – but her mouth suddenly felt dry, and nerves made the wine settle uneasily in her belly. "I…" She curled her fingers tightly around the goblet and took a long, steadying breath, briefly closing her eyes.

Wynne did not move. She said nothing. When Elissa turned to her once more, there was no judgment in her gaze, only patience.

"There are potions to help a woman conceive." Something flickered across Wynne's face, there and gone before Elissa could assess it. "I hoped you could make one."

Wynne's expression closed, became guarded, and Elissa felt a fleeting lick of panic. If Wynne said no, there were other places she could go, other herbalists she could see, but she didn't particularly want to purchase this service from someone she didn't know.

Brittle silence stretched between them. Swallowing hard, Elissa shifted on her stool, hooking her feet behind the bars as she waited for Wynne's response.

"You know these potions can be incredibly dangerous."

She leaned forward, letting her desperation show on her face. "That's why I'm coming to you, Wynne." A tentative smile formed on her face before her expression became worried again. "I need this, Wynne."

"Are you sure you're ready? It's only been two weeks."

Her voice was so gentle that it cut deeper, harsher, than a sword through the gut. Without realizing it, Wynne had ripped off the barely formed scab over her heart and left her bleeding. Anger was her best defense. "I'm _fine_ ," she snapped, sliding off the stool and stalking across the workroom to stand at one of the windows. Frigid air seeped into the room, the heat of the fire not quite reaching her.

"Are you?"

Bitterness welled up inside her, constricting her throat. Her fingers clenched the goblet between her hands as she resisted the urge to hurl it, wine and all, against the ground. Being confined to the palace made her neurotic. Frustrated and malcontent. She wanted to be out doing things, but no one would let her. The king's guard flanked her almost everywhere, the men in the training yards refused to engage her. Even Alistair was reticent to let her do as she wanted.

Idiotic, all of them. If she _felt fine_ , she should be allowed to do as she pleased, not coddled and sheltered. She was the Hero of Ferelden, the Warden-Commander, and she did not appreciate being treated like a fragile doll.

"Of course I am!"

Wynne said nothing, offered no judgments, and Elissa flagged. Drooping against the wall, she shook her head. "I'm not, am I?" She closed her eyes and turned away, pressing one hand to her forehead. "When you… how long did it take you?" The words came quietly, barely above a whisper.

"I had the benefit of being able to hate the templars and the child's father instead of myself," Wynne replied.

Elissa dragged her hand down her face and finished the wine. "I can't afford the luxury of waiting." Her hand slipped over her abdomen, and she tried to disguise the attempt at self-comfort by curling her fingers around the pearl belt she wore. A wedding gift from Alistair, the "proper" one, the public one. It wasn't as hollow as that, though, affording her a great deal of comfort. As if he stood with her. "I _should_ wait. But I can't." She swallowed. "The taint… every day that passes will make it harder."

"Yes."

Elissa opened her eyes, startled. "What?"

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Wynne nodded. "I'll make the potion for you. But first, we need to make sure your monthly flow is regular."

Elissa frowned, her nose wrinkling. "That will take too long."

"Bleed consistently for three months, and after that third time, you'll have the fertility potion." Elissa pulled a face. Wynne's scowl wiped that expression clear off. "I'm serious about this, Elissa. Cut corners and you'll regret it. These aren't things to trifle with."

She sighed. "I know. I just… it would be nice if it were easier. Don't you think?"

"Is anything easy ever worth it in the long run?"

Immediately, she thought of Connor. It hadn't been _easy_ to have the final decision thrust on her – Isolde didn't want to make a choice. Neither did Teagan, and by rights, they should have. Instead, she'd made the choice for them. She'd chosen to sacrifice Isolde to save Connor, unwilling to leave the child in the thrall of a demon.

It _hadn't_ been easy. But all she could remember after was her argument with Leliana – and then Alistair.

 _Would it have been so hard to go to the Circle? Would it have made our lives that much more difficult?_ He had been unrelenting, driving her back, looming over her in his splintmail, and so much fiercer than she'd ever seen him. Infuriated. _What would it have hurt to make sure, just once, everyone lived?_

She'd quailed under his attack, unprepared for it in the aftermath of Isolde's death. Making that decision, choosing to let Jowan sacrifice Isolde—that wasn't easy. But saying those two words, just two, telling him _do it_. That had been easy.

And, no, in the end, it wasn't worth it. There was a rift between Alistair and Eamon because of her. They were cordial enough, but Eamon was cold to him now.

"I suppose I'll have to sit on my ass all day and pretend to find needlework fascinating."

"And entertain the ladies of the court."

Elissa pretended to gag. "Wonderful." Drawing her shoulders back, she lifted her glass and tilted her nose into the air. "I must needs learn how to titter like a helpless maid and simper whilst I am at it."

Wynne's lips twitched. "Tis a most noble sacrifice you make, your most regal majesty." She swept into a mocking bow before Elissa dissolved into helpless laughter.

"Thank you, Wynne." She crossed the workroom with quick steps, touching Wynne's arm lightly. "I appreciate it."

"I'll have your potion for you in a week's time." She placed her hand over Elissa's and gave her fingers a light squeeze.

* * *

Life gave Elissa no reprieve; a month after her visit to Wynne, she was called to Amaranthine. Warden-Commander, indeed. She spent most of her time wondering if anyone actually knew who she was. It certainly seemed they did not.

And she wasn't as alone as she thought she would be – Oghren was there. As was her habit, she collected the odd strays, first Anders, and then Nathaniel, and then Sigrun, Velanna, and Justice. Being on the road refreshed her more than it drained her, buts as she went with Oghren and the other two boys from Vigil's Keep to the city, exhaustion overtook her.

"Are you alright?" Anders asked, as she paused for breath, pretending to examine a merchant's wares.

"Fine," she said easily, lifting a staff and examining it. "I always wondered why we found mage staves at generic merchant stores. Maybe they just don't know what they have?" She tossed it, amused at the way Anders' eyes bugged out his head, and caught the thicker end of the staff. She held it out to him. "Useful?"

Taking it, he ran his other hand over it, and shook his head. "Less boost to spellpower. Are you sure you're alright?"

"Perfectly." She took the staff back from him and set it on the counter, crooking her finger at Nathaniel.

"You called?"

She rolled her eyes and pointed at a noble muttering about the riffraff filling the city streets. "Bet he's got at least three sovereigns in his pocket."

He drew back, surprised. "You want me to pickpocket one of the nobility."

"Mmm." Her fingers drifted toward a garnet. "Do you think Wade would like this?"

"But you just asked me—"

"Yes, I did."

"That's a _crime_."

She lifted both brows as Oghren grunted, walking by in his heavy armor. "And she's the sodding Queen."

And therein lay the reason she adored Oghren so much. He had a wonderful way of stating the truth of things.

They made their way through the rest of the city, eventually taking two rooms at The Crown and Lion. As they sat and drank, the twinge of pain in her abdomen became a knife accompanied by an uncomfortable pressure.

Finishing her wine, Elissa bade the men good night and made her way up the stairs and down the hall to her rooms. She paused outside the door, pressing a fist against her abdomen. Then she pushed inside, shutting the door behind her. She dragged a hand down her face, wondering why she'd expected anything less than this. Wynne had said she might be pregnant, washing her with magic to check a few days before she left for the Keep.

She stripped to her small clothes, wincing as the muscles in her lower abdomen seized. There was blood on her smalls, not very much, but enough, and her stomach roiled. The wine climbed her throat, and she stumbled to the chamber pot, vomiting into it. It burned her mouth but came up easily.

When she sat back, reaching for a towel to wipe her mouth, she found a hand offering her a glass of water. "Drink," Anders said.

She drank. He was using the same healer voice that Wynne used, and it was impossible to disobey.

Crouching beside her, he exchanged the glass for a towel when she'd rinsed her mouth and drank a mouthful. "You want to tell me what's wrong _now_?" he asked.

No, not really, she didn't want to tell him anything. But he _was_ a healer.

"Are you sick? Is this some Grey Warden thing?" He reached for her, his hand settling on her shoulder, and she felt the warm roll of his magic through her. "You don't even flinch."

"I spent a year with Wynne and an apostate." She shrugged.

The magic swept through her, and she felt her stomach settle. With a heavy sigh, she sank to the ground, steadied by his hand and magic, and he pulled back, his brow creased. "You and the king—"

"It's a miscarriage, isn't it?" She sighed and pushed her hands into her hair, dragging at hunks of it. Strange how this time it didn't hurt. Instead of pain, she felt nothing but emptiness. Hollowed. Wrung out. Dried out.

"You're barely a month along. It…" He swallowed, and she wondered if he'd ever had to give news like this before. "It won't be much different than a normal flow. You'll bleed more heavily, and longer. You'll have—"

"This isn't the first miscarriage I've had," she snapped, cutting him off. She had no desire to hear him tell her things she already knew. She didn't want to listen to someone tell her how she was broken. "I'd like to be alone."

Anders dropped to the ground beside the stinking chamber pot, and opened his pouch to let Ser Pounce-a-lot out. Elissa recoiled from the kitten and glared at Anders. "I said—"

"Oh, I heard you," he said. "Healer's orders, you're not to be alone tonight."

She bit her tongue to keep from saying the stupid things so ready to spill from her mouth. _I don't want you here_. _Get out. Your company isn't welcome_.

Instead, she narrowed her eyes. "You're too clever by half."

"Not really."

She exhaled and let the tension run out of her body. A small smile turned her lips up. "You remind me of someone, you know."

"Good or bad?"

Laughing, she pushed the chamber pot away. The innkeeper had assured her a maid would come through to freshen the room; she'd care for it when she came. "I'm not sure yet. So. Anders."

"So, my queen."

She propped her chin on her hands, her elbows on her knees. "Tell me all about how you've managed to escape the Circle so many times." He hesitated. "I'd rather listen to you than talk about myself."

That was enough, and he began to speak. When the room grew cold, she pulled the sheets off the bed and wrapped herself in one, gave him the other, and he stoked the fire with magic, and they stayed awake long into the night.

* * *

The next day, they were both bleary eyed, but in spite of that, Elissa's mood was much improved. Anders examined one of the potions Wynne left her, and they spent the majority of the day walking together, talking.

In some ways, dealing with the trouble at Vigil's Keep and Amaranthine was more difficult than dealing with the Archdemon. Keeping up with Wynne's potion – and she would be damned before she stopped taking it – meant having to cope with women's troubles the duration of the campaign against the Architect. But Sigrun proved an invaluable friend in that regard.

She found herself back in the palace, some five months later, alone. Wynne was traveling, Shale was with her, Alistair was in Orlais, Eamon had returned home. The court was relatively empty, the arls and banns returning to their lands for the summer, and she found herself bored out of her mind. Her itch to spar and fight sated by the long battle against the Architect, she lounged in the library in comfortable leathers, not bothering with gowns with no one to entertain. Reading was difficult for her, unless the book was a torrid Nevarran romance, but she forced herself to make her way through several tomes addressing politics.

The solitude wasn't so bad as that, though; Cauthrien joined her in the libraries in the second week, a silent companion recently returned from a tour of southern Ferelden at the king's behest. She brought Driscole and, sometimes, several other knights in the king's guard with her, and so the palace was less lonely.

Lounging in front of the library's empty fireplace, which meant she sprawled on her back across a thick rug in a pair of Alistair's trousers and one of his fine silk shirts, Elissa held out a book to Cauthrien. Shae. It was odd to think of the knight by her given name. "Wasn't this banned by the Chantry?" she asked, rolling onto her stomach after Shae took it. She reached for the mug of crisp, cold wine at her side, pawing uselessly at the air, unable to understand why the mug seemed so far away.

Driscole pushed it closer with his toe as he tossed back a mouthful, and Elissa finally got her hands around it. Sweet wine filled her mouth and trailed warmth down her throat when she swallowed.

Shae choked. "Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Banned. Is this even _possible_?" She shoved the book under Driscole's nose while Elissa reached out and grabbed at it. They ignored her, Driscole making a surprised noise while Shae nodded.

"Let me see," Elissa demanded, waving her hand at Driscole's face.

He turned the book, displaying the lewd picture she'd been examining before handing it to Shae. She smiled. "Oooh, that. Yes."

Both of them stared at her.

Rolling her eyes, she spread her legs wide, a perfect split, then closed them and brought them up behind her back, touching her toes to her shoulders.

Their eyes grew wider.

"You _learn_ things, you see," she said, as if that made everything better. "You need to be _bendy_ to fight the darkspawn."

"I doubt your husband is very bendy." Driscole turned the book about and paged through it. Whistling, he jabbed his finger against one page. "I—I want to do this, though. Cauthrien. Cauthrien, we should—should try this."

She leaned over, swayed, and nearly fell. Catching herself on Driscole's shoulder, she peered at the book. Clearly unimpressed, she said, "No. Absolutely not." And then she swung away. "What are we doing?"

"Getting drunk," Elissa said, downing another mouthful of wine. She hauled herself into a sitting position and grabbed at the pitcher on the floor between them. "Wonderfully, blissfully drunk."

"Why?"

"Giggles." She poured more wine into the cup, drained half, and poured more.

Driscole grinned. "Because we don't have to be on the field at assbell in the morning."

"That," Shae said, pointing at him with a wobbling finger, "is _not_ polite."

"Assbell?"

Elissa giggled, snorted, and laughed all the harder for it. "Asschabs."

"What." She wasn't sure whether Shae or Driscole said that.

"Asschabs!"

"What's an asschab?" Driscole asked, frowning, looking like he was thinking very, _very_ hard.

But she had to admit: it was _very_ hard to think. Thinking was difficult. She didn't know why she did it so much. Clearly, she should just stop. She almost said as much, but a shadow fell over her, and that distracted her.

"Alistair!"

"No," Driscole said, lifting a finger. "No, that would be very much—it would be—what's the word?"

"Rude?" Alistair asked, lifting both brows and staring at the top of Driscole's head.

Driscole fell over himself as he tried to spin around, knocking the wine pitcher across the floor. Elissa wailed.

"Not the wine! Driscole!"

He was too busy scrambling away from Alistair to pay her any mind. Shae waved at the king. "Hello, your majesty."

"Ser Cauthrien. You look… comfortable."

"I made her put on trousers," Elissa explained, quite proud of herself. "And let her hair down. And we were going to put on makeup. But then we were too drunk and walking was hard."

"Very hard," Shae agreed. Her face went white and she threw herself at the book, spilling her, wine, too.

Elissa picked up her own glass to spare it. Then decided to drink everything that was left. "You weren't supposed to be home tonight," she said, licking the taste of wine from her lips. "The cha—" She paused, not quite sure how to say the word she wanted to use. "The person who knows your trips."

"The chamberlain?"

"Yes, him. He said… uh… I don't remember. Do you remember?"

Driscole scratched his chin, thoughtful. "No."

"I don't either."

Alistair crouched beside her, plucking the glass of wine from her fingers. "How long have you three been drinking?" he asked, turning the glass over in his hands.

Giggling, Elissa pressed her hands to his face. "You're so handsome."

He flushed and grasped at her wrists, pulling her away. "Thank you. But you're drunk."

"So?"

"Are you going to kiss her?" Driscole yanked the book out from under Shae and held it up for Alistair to see. "She says you've done this."

Alistair went scarlet, which was really a lovely color on him. Twining her arms around his neck, she scooted closer to him, between his lovely, strong legs. Her handsome husband was very handsome. So handsome. The handsomest. Most handsome. "Elissa… says a lot of things. While drunk. My dear, please sto—"

She kissed him. Because he needed to know exactly how handsome he was, and kisses were an excellent way to show him. Except she seemed to have missed his mouth.

Behind them, Driscole howled with laughter. She glared at him over her shoulder, and he fell to his back, still laughing, while Shae covered her eyes and pressed her lips into a thin line. But she was trying not to laugh, too.

Fine, they were just jealous. That's what it was.

Clearly.

"Alistair."

He sighed. It sounded long-suffering. He must be tired.

She hoped he wasn't too tired.

"Yes?"

"Can we have sex now?"

He choked. "I think it's time to go."

"To bed?" She was hopeful.

"Er, eventually."

"Oh, good. I've missed you." She snuggled close to him as he wrapped his arms around her and picked her up, cradling her body in his arms. He was warm, smelled of sweat and leather and open skies, and she sighed happily.

"As for you two," Alistair said. His voice rumbled in his chest, and she turned her head to lick a tendon in his neck. To express her appreciation. "Get back to the barrack's, for Andraste's sake, before you can't even move."

Grumbling unhappily, Driscole dragged Shae to her feet and they plodded out of the library, herded by Alistair. Elissa, ignoring them for the most part, applied herself to the distraction of her husband, kissing and nipping at his neck.

"Stop that. You're drunk."

"I missed you," she crooned, sliding one hand into his hair. She tried to push his mouth to hers, but he refused to yield. Instead, he stared at her like she had three heads. She tried to scowl and look pathetic all at once.

He sighed and bent his head, giving her a brief kiss. Too chaste, too boring, but she'd take what she could get. "I missed you, too."

"Oh, good. I was worried."

"Were you now?"

"Yes."

He stepped through the massive doors to their suite, held open by a guard, and she waved. "Hello, Ser Muirdden."

He inclined his head. "Good evening, your majesties."

And then the door shut behind them, and they were alone in their rooms. She thought he'd put her down, which was a bit scary – she wasn't sure her legs would work. They felt squishy. But he carried her to their bedroom instead, setting her gently on their bed.

She stretched on it, beckoning to him with a sultry smile.

He dragged a hand down his face. "I need to bathe," he told her.

"I have a tongue."

He went still, and she smiled. "Elissa, that's—"

She pushed herself upward.

And threw up.

* * *

"I hear you're hung over."

Elissa pressed the pillow over her face and groaned. "Too loud," she mumbled into the bed sheets.

The bed dipped and rolled, and her stomach lurched. She was going to die. She wasn't hung over, she was dying. This was the end.

"Of course."

Slowly, she peeled the pillow away from one eye so she could see who was beside her. "Wynne?"

"None other. Alistair tells me you drank yourself sick last night."

Moaning, she drew the pillow back over her face and debated killing herself. Better than dying of shame. "Apparently." Someone had cleaned up the vomit, she recalled that much, but there was a faint odor in the room. She'd burn cedar wood in the fireplace later. Except that would make the room unbearably hot.

There was no hope of success.

"You don't deserve it, but I've made a remedy for you."

"…how?"

"You're going to question my kindness?"

Sitting up with great care, Elissa took the flask Wynne offered and tipped its contents down her throat. It was bitter. And lumpy. She made a face, handing the flask back, but didn't question what was in the remedy.

"I arrived shortly after Alistair, and he begged my aide." Wynne tucked the flask into a pouch at her hip. "He also promised me a very expensive, very rare bottle of Antivan red."

"Generous," Elissa said, trying to get the bitter taste of the remedy out of her mouth.

"And I have something else for you." She picked something off the bed, a rolled up velvet cloth. Carefully untying the strings that held it closed, Wynne unrolled one end to reveal a series of vials.

Elissa's heart lurched in her chest. "You—"

"Yes. But if you drink like that while taking these, I will light your hair on fire."

She almost laughed. But Wynne looked so serious she held back.

"Drink one every morning," Wynne instructed, pulling one of the vials free of the cloth. She unstopped the top and passed it to Elissa. The liquid was a muted orange color and smelled faintly of lilac. Bringing it to her lips, she tipped back her head and swallowed.

It tasted worse than the remedy, and she choked, coughing.

"This is _terrible_ ," she gasped.

"Did you expect it to taste like rainbows and sunshine?"

"I'd think it would taste _better_." Wincing, Elissa slipped the empty vial into the cloth once more.

Wynne wrapped the cloth up, tied it, and slipped it under her bed. "Make sure you take it every morning. If you forget, take it at night, but don't take two in a single day, do you understand?" Elissa nodded. "You have enough here for two months. After three, the potion spoils."

"Thank you, Wynne." Elissa took her hand and squeezed lightly. "Truly. I mean it."

Wynne inclined her head. "I know." She stood, and held out her hands. "Now, up you get. You have a busy day. I saw your schedule."

Groaning, Elissa took Wynne's hands and allowed the other woman to pull her to her feet. "How can I be busy? Alistair only just got back. Who else is here?"

"An emissary from Antiva, I believe."

"Zevran?"

"Do you think the Antivans would send Zevran here, to discuss politics with us?"

"No."

Amethyne bustled in, then, her arms full of clothes, and Elissa sighed, resigning herself to a very long, very boring day. Plucking her smalls from the top of the pile, she slid into them as Amethyne arranged her outfit on the bed and Wynne looked on.

"Elissa."

She made a disgruntled noise of acknowledgement, tugging her kirtle onto her body. Amethyne laced it up the sides.

"How often do you have sex with your husband?"

A strangled sound caught in her throat, and she felt her face heat and flush. At her breast, Amethyne's hands faltered, and the young girl turned away, blushing furiously. "Wynne, I'm not sure—"

"Elissa, I traveled with you for the better part of a year. I am _intimately_ familiar with the vast majority of your sexual practices."

Why the floor didn't just open up and swallow her, Elissa would never know. But she fervently wished it would. Pushing her thumbs against closed eyes, and answered, "Often."

"Elissa." Wynne sounded annoyed.

"It depends!" Exhaling hard, she brushed Amethyne's hands away and turned to Wynne, her arms crossed, her brows drawn tight. "Why are we even discussing this?"

"As your healer, and I assume your midwife, it's important you tell me these things."

Amethyne's fingers tugging on Elissa's arms until she uncrossed them, and the little girl helped her into a chemise.

Sighing, but still uncomfortable by the thought of putting her and her husband's sexual practices into words, Elissa nodded. "Maybe… two or three times a week. When we're together." Wynne's brows rose, and Elissa swallowed, wondering if there was a right answer to that question. "Is that a lot? Or too little?"

A wry smile quirked the corners of Wynne's lips. "The research I've done recently—" Andraste's ass, Wynne had done _research_ for her? "—suggests it's best to engage in…" She made a vague gesture with a twist of her wrist, an impassive look on her face. "…in intercourse every two to three days when you're at your most fertile."

 _How is this conversation actually happening?_

She folded her hands over the stomacher while Amethyne picked up a simple leather belt. "No, the pearls, please," Elissa murmured to her as Wynne continued.

"And if you perform fellatio on—"

" _Wynne!_ " Her horror could not be described. Amethyne, thankfully, was probably – she fervently hoped – too young to understand the conversation, but that did little to mitigate her embarrassment.

"—you should stop. It's a waste."

Elissa's mortified scream strangled in her throat, coming out as a pathetic gurgle instead.

"Hero of Ferelden, slayer of darkspawn hordes and the Old God Urthemiel and you can't discuss sex with your healer?"

"You're like my _grandmother_ ," Elissa exclaimed without thought.

Wynne chuckled. "I'll see you this evening at dinner," she said, brushing by Elissa as Amethyne wrapped the belt of pearls about her waist and snugged it around the stomacher.

* * *

Shifting uncomfortably in his chair – he still wasn't used to the damn thing, and it would need at least eight extra pillows before the thought of sitting in it for hours would become appealing – Alistair reread the first paragraph of the Antivan emissary's letter for the third time. He was _sure_ there was some double meaning in it, but he wasn't sure if the man was saying he wanted to sleep with the queen or take a nice long ride through the country that would end with an arrow in Alistair's eye.

Either way, he wasn't thrilled.

Or maybe it meant exactly what it said and there was no double meaning at all. That was the trouble with Antivans: one could never tell when they were being honest and when they were being sneaky.

Sighing, he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his forehead, marveling at how quickly work could give him a throbbing headache.

The soft rap at his door promised to make the headache worse.

"Come in," he called, pushing the missive into his "to do" stack, a haphazard pile of papers that grew by the moment and had no discernible organizational scheme. Even to him.

Wynne bustled in, looking spry and fit and far too energetic for the time of day. "Alistair."

Thank the Maker she used his first name. Whatever she wanted, it was a matter of friendship, not state. "Wynne. Hello, how are you? Please, sit down. Can I get you a drink?"

She chuckled as she eased into one of the chair across from his desk. "Bored already?"

"Yes. How is Elissa? You gave her the remedy?"

"I did, and she's fine. Do you have a moment?"

"I have many." He gave her one of his practiced, inviting smiles, and her arched brow said she saw right through it right away. Of course she did. She always did. Having Wynne around was like having a mother _and_ a grandmother _and_ a personal keeper.

Now _there_ was a disturbing thought.

Coughing, he gave her an inviting gesture. "Please. By all means. What did you need?"

"I spoke with Elissa about this earlier, but I wanted to make sure you _both_ understood."

She wore an intense expression, and Alistair stilled, somehow expecting the worse. They'd done something to upset Wynne. She was leaving. Or she was going to die and they weren't allowed to follow. Or she was going to bequeath her lab to them, and they'd have to worry about cleaning it out or—

"Regarding your attempts at conceiving another child—"

His thoughts came to a screaming halt, and he felt his jaw slacken.

"Wipe that look off your face, young man, this is serious." He did as she commanded without hesitation, covering his mouth with his fingers and propping his elbow on the arm of his chair. Maybe that would help. Hide his expressions. Maybe.

Unlikely.

Wynne could read his expression in the dark when she wasn't looking at him.

"As I told her earlier." Wynne held up one finger. "Limit yourselves to intercourse every two to three days." He stared. She held up a second finger. "If Elissa wishes to perform any prolonged oral acts, do not finish in her mouth." He choked. She held up a third finger. "Don't burn yourselves out by engaging in intercourse multiple times a night." He thought he might die of horror. "Not to say you _can't_ indulge, but do try to practice moderation." Her brows lifted, and he had the awful realization that she had heard him and Elissa that one night in the Dales.

 _Maker's mercy_.

He swallowed and nodded.

"And one the nights you don't couple, do refrain from taking yourself in hand."

 _This can't be happening. We can't be having this conversation_.

"Yes, Wynne," he finally managed.

"Excellent. I'm glad you understand." She rose.

"Wait, wait. That—the only reason you came here was to—to tell me _that_?"

"Yes."

"Oh."

"Have a pleasant day, Alistair."

Oh, yes, very pleasant, now that all he could do was feel deep and burning shame at every sexual thought that crossed his mind. And there were many.

Eamon entered his study as Wynne exited, frowning when he looked at Alistair. "Something the matter, your majesty?"

"Ah, no. No, nothing. Nothing at all. Why do you ask? Should there be something wrong? Look, I think that Antivan emissary wants to kill me, isn't this some sort of Antivan code?" He thrust the letter at Eamon, and Eamon, Maker bless him, took it without question.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Mild sexy times, references to previous miscarriages, a desire demon making promises to a distraught woman. This chapter is mostly tame in comparison to the previous two.

Winter dropped thick layers of snow across Ferelden, even in Denerim by the ocean, and Elissa found herself besieged in her own palace, unable to escape. The banns who flocked to the city at the start of the winter season brought with them their wives and daughters, all of whom were quite eager to endear themselves to the Queen and Hero of Ferelden. She spent her days in salons and parlors, never sure whether or not she was being complimented or mocked.

Her nights weren't much better. Alistair's reticence to have sex with her likely came from her third miscarriage toward the end of summer. She would never have known – it had seemed like a normal flow – except that Wynne checked in once a week, hoping that detecting a pregnancy early would allow them to keep her safe.

Which meant lots of boring bed rest.

But since that second miscarriage, Alistair hadn't expressed any desire to sleep with her. Even now, several months later, when he touched her, his hands were kind and warm, but never passionate. Never inviting. He was tender. He was sweet. But he kept his kisses reserved and his hugs gentle.

"I don't understand," Elissa muttered as she signed a letter to one of the Antivan merchants currently holding sway over the country.

"Don't understand what?" Leliana asked. "Antivan politics?"

With a snort, Elissa dropped her quill in its ink well and swept her gaze over the letter once more, tilting her head to the side. "I think this is worded prettily enough. Would you read over it for me?"

"Of course." Leliana reached for the parchment, and Elissa passed it to her, leaning back in her uncomfortable chair. The back was straight, extending above her head and bearing the royal crest. The arms were too high, the seat too broad, and so she slouched, trying to find a comfortable position. Her stomacher bit into the skin under her breasts, so she shifted, leaning against one arm rest. But that was just as uncomfortable. With a sigh, she draped herself over the arm of the chair and scratched the top of Rabbit's head.

He grumbled softly, turning into the touch before dropping to the ground and working his nose under the hem of her skirt and licking her leg.

With a quiet laugh, she pushed his face away. "No, stop that," she chided softly, and he dropped his head to the floor at one foot of her chair, watching her with woeful eyes. "Rabbit. You can't eat my stockings."

He whined, as if to ask why not?

"Because they're very nice stockings. And I like them." No, she didn't. She hated them. But unless she was on the training grounds, she wore all the proper fashions for a queen. It was impossibly hard, sometimes, to be a warrior and a woman, but she loved the accoutrements and trappings of both. She made do, willingly.

"Well, I think this is fine." Leliana handed the letter back, and Elissa took it, carefully folding it. "But you didn't answer me. What don't you understand?"

Sighing, Elissa let heated wax drop onto the folded letter. She pressed her crest into it, sealing it, and then set it aside. Leaning heavily on her desk, she put her face in her hands. "Everything," she moaned, feeling the weight of her life crushing down on her.

"Of course you don't." Leliana used her bard voice, the soothing one. The one she used to ply information from people when Elissa was unsuccessful. "Perhaps you could be more specific?"

"Alistair." Elissa groaned, dragging her hands down her face. "He… he doesn't seem to want me anymore." She swallowed hard, her pulse pounding in her throat. "I—after the second miscarriage, he—he won't touch me. Not like he used to."

Her only answer was silence.

Lifting her face, blinking back tears of frustration and anger, she said, "I don't know what to do, Leliana. I can't give him the heir he needs, he doesn't want me."

"This is not the woman I know," Leliana said, and though her voice was firm, it was not unkind. "This is not Elissa Theirin, who commanded the armies of Ferelden against an Old God, who saved the world and everyone in it."

Elissa turned away. "I killed more people than I helped," she muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. People died. She knew that. But she didn't like how many she had sacrificed, in the end, to defeat the Blight.

"Bah, stop that. You are feeling sorry for yourself now, and why? Because your husband is afraid to hurt you, maybe?" That startled her. She hadn't thought of it like that. "If he will not go to you and you want to make another child, you must simply go to him." A devious smile lit Leliana's face. "And if her majesty the queen and Hero of Ferelden has time for a simple bard…"

"I always have time for you."

"Then I believe I know just what we can do."

They spent the remainder of the afternoon in Elissa's rooms, digging through her trunks and armoires of clothes. Leliana insisted she had all the clothes they needed, and stripped Elissa to her smalls. Elissa watched Leliana root through her things, wrapped in a thick blanket. When Leliana found something she liked, Elissa let the other woman dress her, let her study the results and judge them. She tossed aside more clothes than Elissa realized she owned before finally settling on something deemed passable.

"What do you think?" she asked, pulling Elissa in front of a priceless mirror, the silvered glass easily as expensive as some of the bejeweled crowns she wore for special state events.

Elissa stared at herself in the mirror, unsure what to say. She wasn't really _wearing_ anything. Leliana, using the long length of pearls Alistair gave to her on their wedding day, had wrapped her in light, nearly sheer sky blue silk. Her cheeks sparkled, lightly dusted by makeup, and her hair, curling gently, Leliana pinned back with sparkling clips of sapphire from the bottom of one trunk.

"You look like a goddess," Leliana said, lightly squeezing Elissa's shoulders as she peered over them.

She almost felt like one. "Thank you."

"Of course. I will tell ask dinner be sent to you, yes? I think… finger foods?"

Elissa gave her a slight smile. "You don't need to do that."

"No. But I _want_ to." Leliana drew away. "Have a good night, Elissa." And then she was gone, the tapestry cutting off the bedroom from the rest of the suite swinging once in her absence. The sound of the door closing followed, and Elissa stood still before the mirror, acutely aware of how empty the suite was.

She tentatively touched the edge of the silk, where it swept over one breast, barely veiling her nipple beneath it. No one would ever call her attractive – except her husband – but she felt pretty as she turned in front of the mirror, eying the fall of silk over her thighs, how the ends brushed just above her knees. The rope of pearls fell to ground, a small pile at her feet, and she plucked at the length just below the knot at her navel.

Fretting, she turned from the mirror. Maybe Alistair would consider this too bold. Maybe he wouldn't think it becoming at all. Maybe he no longer wanted her at all, and his reluctance to bed her had everything to do with that and nothing to do with her miscarriages.

Tipping her head back, she pressed her fingers against the bone under her eyes and then slid the tips of her fingers up to push against her closed eyelids. Sparks of light exploded against her darkened vision.

Dragging her hands from her eyes, she glanced at the candle burning on the wall. Alistair would be done with his evening duties to the crown soon, would be back soon. Or maybe the servants had been late to change one of the candles. Maybe something was keeping him. Maybe he didn't want to see her.

She pushed at the uncertainties clawing at her, hating herself for every one of them. She'd never been a weak-willed person, never harbored as much self doubt as she did now.

Needing an outlet for her growing nervous agitation, she plucked Alistair's sword – the functional one, not the hideous gold thing he wore when swanning about the palace – from where it hung over the fireplace. She spun it in her hand, turning it round and round, listening to the quiet sound of the blade cutting through air.

Turning her body to the side, she lifted the blade into a defensive position, closed her eyes, and _—_

 _Skin prickling, hyperaware, she moved through the world in slow motion. But her blades were fast, like lightning chained to steel. Darkspawn fell before her, limbs severed, throats opened. Gurgling as they died, some reached for her, clawed at her greaves._

 _He moved ahead of her, a wall and a fortress, keeping the horde at bay long enough for her to cut them down._

 _The metallic smell of blood filled her nose. Electric static from Morrigan's spells danced along her skin. The air itself stood still as Wynne cast, paralyzing and debilitating the enemies swarming them._

 _Arms burning, legs screaming, she pushed on, forcing herself forward, cutting through the grunts and the meaningless masses. She spun, catching a genlock in the throat. She ducked and thrust, digging both daggers into a hurlock's gut. Tearing them free, she drove them into the body of a monster behind her._

 _She twisted about, prepared to run at the ogre Alistair had just stunned._

The door to the bedroom shut with a heavy sound, and she froze, her sword arm drawn back, the blade at her cheek. She was poised to strike when Alistair brushed the heavy tapestry to their bedchamber aside.

And he stopped dead, staring.

She licked her lips, and his eyes went straight to her mouth before turning a lazy path down her body, following pearls and silk wrapped around her. Some of the fabric had slipped, revealing a breast and a hint of her lower abdomen.

"Elissa—" He stopped, cutting himself short. In the silence, she moved fluidly from her battle-ready stance, striding across the room to stand before him. As if entranced, his eyes followed the swing of the strand of pearls hanging from the knot at her stomach. At his sides, his fingers twitched and flexed.

She stepped up to him, pressed against him and slid one hand over his shoulder and into the hair at the back of his neck. One of his hands went to her wrist, fingers curling gently about it, and the other wrapped around one of the length of pearl to draw her closer.

"Good evening." She spoke quietly against his jaw as her lips brushed over it, tracing an idle path to his chin. Inside, she trembled, certain of his impending rejection. But outside, she was strong. The goddess Leliana thought she was.

"I—Elissa, are you—"

Their bodies flush, the heat of him spilling into her and turning to warm languor that settled low in her belly, she tipped her head and traced the tip of her tongue along a tendon in his neck. He swallowed hard, his breath hitching.

"You're sure?"

His concern would have been more touching if she could understand it. Rolling her hips against his, she caught his earlobe in her teeth. "You're not?"

"I—you—I _hurt_ you."

She wondered how they hadn't had this conversation before, how it hadn't come up and how she'd been so blind to his reasons.

Her thumb brushed back and forth over his neck, a soothing gesture, and his hand slipped down her wrist to pluck the sword from her grasp. He set it aside, leaning away to lay it on the top of their dresser, and she caught the tense look on his face.

"Alistair." He hesitated. "Alistair." She framed his face with her hands and drew him close, until his nose brushed against hers. The uncertainty and reticence in his eyes made her chest hurt.

"Twice now. I can't bear to hurt you."

Gently, she smoothed her fingers over the drawn lines of his face. "Please. Just this last time. Then we can… we can find another solution."

Her lips touched his, the barest hint of pressure. And then his hand curled around the back of her neck, and he kissed her. Slowly. Sweetly. The promise of _more_ in the kiss drew a moan from her, one he willingly swallowed as he tugged the length of pearls he held in his hand.

His lovemaking was tender, not the fiery, all consuming passion she expected after several months of abstinence. But under the gentle caresses and soft kisses was strength and steel. Each stroke of his body in hers was a promise, one she drowned in willingly.

In the morning, she woke slowly, feeling warm and languorous, her husband's chest her pillow. Picking her head up, she laced her fingers across his chest and propped her chin on them, watching him with sleepy eyes until he, too, woke. Blinking his dreams from his eyes, he smiled at her, and his fingers slipped into her hair, combing gently through it.

"Morning," he murmured.

"Morning." Pushing lightly against him, she lifted her body and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips. He returned it with one of his own that was anything _but_ chaste, his hand sliding down he curve of her back to slip between her thighs. With a scandalized laugh, she drew back. "We need to dress."

"No, we don't," he replied, following her retreat and stealing quick, eager kisses from her. "I'm king. I can do whatever I want."

Laughing, she shook her head. "You have a country to run." He grumbled against her mouth. "I have nobles to appease." His hand squeezed her thigh. "Duty, Alistair."

"Always duty," he muttered, catching her lower lip in his teeth and tugging. "Let's take the day off."

Something unfurled in the back of her mind, the barest skeleton of an idea. "We can't do that," she protested.

His hand shifted, tugging her leg over his hip. Stifling a gasp, wanting more than anything to slip across his lap and then down onto him, she turned her face away.

"But—"

"I have to talk to Anora. _You_ have to meet with that fellow from Nevarra and impress him with your swordsmanship."

Grumbling, Alistair released his hold on her thigh. "He looks like a dragon."

She laughed and kissed the tip of his nose. "You fought and killed a dragon."

"No." There was pain in his eyes that he tried to hide behind a cheerful, joking smile. " _You_ left me at the city gates."

She ran with the joke because she couldn't face the hurt. " _No._ " She poked his chest as she pulled away from him. " _You're_ the one who killed that dragon guarding the Urn."

"Mmm, yes. I did, didn't I?" He grinned at her and rose as she did, slipping out of their bed.

She helped him dress, even though they had servants for that, and they fell quickly into their old routine. She buckled him into his plate, and he cinched tight the stays on her dress, smoothing his hands over her sides.

"I lived for our trips into towns," he murmured, drawing her against his armor. The cool of the metal seeped through the thick velvet of her gown, but she didn't mind.

Cocking her head to the side, she lifted her brow. "Oh?"

He kissed the corner of her mouth, the tip of her nose, her closed eyes. "You in a dress? I didn't know how to cope."

Ah, yes. She smiled.

His knuckles brushed her jaw, and she opened her eyes to watch him, to study the serious look in his golden eyes. "Good luck with Anora."

Laughing, she lifted to her toes and kissed his cheek. "Instill the fear of the Maker in our friend from Nevarra."

* * *

"Come to free me from my tower?"

Elissa, her hands laced loosely behind her back, dug her nails into the palm of one hand to keep from strangling Anora. Snobby, self-righteous, pretentious, proud creature.

"And if I was?" She swept into the room as imperiously as possible, a difficult thing indeed. Anora had the uncanny ability to make Elissa feel small and weak, spineless and craven.

The blonde turned toward her as she settled in a chair, her eyes critical and judging. Having no patience for games, Elissa let her face be plain and didn't bother to hide how little she wanted to be in Anora's room, sitting on the very edge of the chair, tense and poised to rise.

"I wouldn't believe you."

Anora, true, had few reasons to trust Elissa.

"Would you sit?"

"No, I would prefer to stand." A coolly superior smile lit Anora's face.

Of course she'd prefer to stand.

Elissa tipped her head back, doing her best to look down her nose at Anora while looking up at her, refusing to back down. They didn't like each other, never had, even as children, and not even Elissa's begrudging respect for Anora could keep her from wanting to hit her. And as she had no patience for Anora, she opted not to dance around the subject. "The crown would like you to go to Gwarren."

"I wondered why you hadn't shuffled me to another prison." Anora glided past Elissa, her skirts brushing against Elissa's legs.

"You misunderstand." Elissa leaned back in the chair, loosely lacing her fingers in her lap. Her brows lifted and she smiled. "The crown would like you to be Gwarren's teyrna."

Anora froze, turning ever so slowly to face Elissa once more. Her eyes were narrowed, her brows drawn, and the calculating look on her face made Elissa's stomach twist in knots. "Why."

Because Elissa didn't _hate_ Anora, because locking Anora up for having Loghain for a father was as stupid as executing Cauthrien for being loyal. "Gwarren belongs to the Mac Tirs. There's no reason to deny you what's yours." Because the people of Ferelden loved Anora's father, because the people of Ferelden loved Anora, too.

Anora was silent, surely assessing the offer from every angle. "And if I accept?"

Elissa rolled her shoulders, an easy shrug. "You become teyrna of Gwarren, and should you have children, your children inherit. There is no trick here." Elissa had no desire to make an enemy of Anora.

"Do not think Gwarren will fall at the feet of the crown with gratitude should I accept."

"Oh, I wouldn't _dream_ of expecting that." Baiting Anora. She always baited Anora. Why, in the Maker's holy name, did she always bait Anora?

"I will not be beholden to you for this."

"Anora, the crown means to give you what is yours by birth." It was an effort not to touch the glittering tiara on her head, but she refused to slight Anora in that way.

Anora was still as she thought, her eyes fixed on Elissa's, and Elissa, though unnerved, did not look away. Finally, Anora inclined her head, but she didn't look grateful or even relieved. If anything, she looked annoyed. "I accept."

"Then you should pack your things. Ser Cauthrien and Ser Driscole will see you escorted to Gwarren before the week is out."

"My, so eager to be rid of me?"

Rising, Elissa smiled. "You may be able to out-scheme me and out-manipulate me, Anora. You may be able to plan and prepare for all possible frustrations and outcomes." Her fingers went to one of the pins in her hair, and pulled it free. The bejeweled handle was pretty and useless, but the wicked, curved blade attached to it was sharpened to a more than serviceable edge. "But not even _you_ can do those things from the grave."

Anora sneered, and Elissa met it with an impervious stare.

"You would not dare."

"No." Killing Anora would be a tactical error, even if it would be immensely satisfying. "You used me, Anora, and so I harbor for you a certain disdain. But there are worse things than death." Spinning the dagger once around her fingers, she slipped it back into her hair and gave Anora a mocking curtsey. "A pleasant day to you, Teyrna."

She left Anora's room shaking, clutching her hands together before her in an attempt to hide the anxiety suddenly pumping through her. Doubt nipped at her heels, drove her steps faster and faster until she was nearly running down the hall. Her feet carried her to Wynne's workroom while her mind turned the meeting with Anora over and over. Fear that she'd made the wrong choice crawled up her back like one of the Mother's children, small and vile, whispering and clicking against her ear.

"I need a drink," she told Wynne as soon as she opened the door, with no preamble.

Wynne stood in the center of the room, surveying the mess that was her worktable, and said just as easily, "No."

"But—"

"No. Sit." Wynne pointed at a chair, and Elissa sat. With gentle hands, Wynne smoothed the riotous curls of Elissa's hair back into her braid, adjusting the dagger and other pins to better hold it. "You did this yourself?"

"Alistair helped."

"You spoke with Anora?"

"She agreed to be teyrna."

"Then this is a good day." Wynne's hands settled on her shoulders, and a rush of warm magic filled her body. As a child, magic had terrified her. Need and practicality had numbed her to many of its dangers. The gentle hum of Wynne's magic in her blood was too familiar to be feared, a brush of steel around her bones. Strength fortified her resolve, chasing away the doubts that clawed at her and freeing her mind of worry. She'd done what she had to, done it moderately well. If there were problems, she would face them as they came up.

The magic swirled through her, a faint melody that was almost recognizable. "It sounds like singing," she said softly.

"Does it?"

"Mmm. It reminds me of something." The concern that momentarily fluttered across Wynne's face did not go unnoticed, but Elissa didn't remark on it. She felt the magic pool low in her abdomen and would have retched for nervousness. "Anything?"

Wynne's hands withdrew. "Not today." She gave Elissa a smile that was so kind it was cruel. "We'll check again next week."

"Yes. Next week. Now, I have some time before I have to get to my next bit of courtly duty. Tell me what you're working on."

But she didn't hear anything Wynne said. The weight of failure hung hard from her shoulders. And dread. So much dread.

* * *

Cold winds blasted Alistair's cheeks, scalding them with icy fingers, but inside his armor, droplets of sweat ran down his spine and soaked his padding. Astride a horse he hated to ride – and the horse seemed to dislike him in turn – and with the Nevarran emissary and his daughter at his side, saying he was uncomfortable would have won a prize for understatement.

Josef Schwartz seemed utterly content.

And his daughter, Zora or Ramilla or Petra or something, arrayed in furs and looking perfect, wore a beatific expression. If she fluttered her eyelashes at him once more, he'd—he'd—well, he'd do nothing, for all he wanted to do _something_.

Maybe he'd offer her stale cheese at dinner.

Except that under all that fur was dragonbone armor and at least four knives, and he had no desire to make enemies of the Nevarrans.

"The Ferelden army is quite impressive," Josef observed as they watched a platoon of men practice. Unlike Alistair and his daughter, he wore no armor, just warm velvet and fur and a strangely satisfied expression. "I hear your queen has taken to training them."

Alistair nodded. "With darkspawn still about, we find it prudent to ensure our forces are prepared to fight against anything."

"She must be busy. Warden-Commander, queen, hero."

There was a trap there, Alistair knew. He'd spent enough time during the Blight with Elissa hauling him back by his plate while Leliana searched for traps along the ground to know when to suspect their presence. But detecting those traps was always difficult. "She plans her days well. Very organized," he replied honestly, hoping that would satisfy.

"I would expect nothing less." Schwartz shifted on his horse, but it wasn't a shifty or nervous movement. Nothing about the ambassador was either of those things, and that, Alistair thought, was the trouble. He was an utterly trustworthy man, the kind who joked with a man ill at ease with his kingship, relaxing him. And Alistair knew he couldn't afford to be relaxed around the ambassador. "Nevarra wishes… little more than the success of your reign."

Alistair stiffened in his armor, recognizing that for what it was. Schwartz intended to court Ferelden on behalf of Nevarra, to form and alliance against Orlais. That was obvious. But he, like seemingly everyone else on the face of Thedas, seemed more than politely interested in how pregnant Elissa wasn't. Alistair had already received at least three thinly veiled invitations to meet the daughters of several very rich, very powerful Antivans.

Then Roma or Ronna asked him a question about armor, and he was more than happy to answer it in lieu of thinking about Antivans and their propositions.

Over dinner, Alistair watched Schwartz ask Elissa carefully worded questions, ones meant to injure her pride as much as learn more about her temperament, and Alistair almost felt bad for the man. Elissa's face remained impassive; her tone was steady and pleasant, but the way her fingers curled around her knife told him she had no love for the ambassador. And Elissa could store up her dislike, cultivate it into loathing, and unleash it on an unsuspecting person at the moment most opportune for her and, for her victim, most damning.

Radana or Radka chatted happily with him for the bulk of the meal, something he put up with out of polite necessity. But when the meal and entertainment finally ended, he was eager to escape with Elissa to their rooms.

He pulled at the laces of her gown while she undid the braids in her hair.

"You're frowning," he said, brushing his lips over her bare shoulder.

Her frown deepened.

"Why?"

"It's nothing."

He'd learned the hard way not to accept that as an answer. Setting his hands on her hips, he took a step back and peered down at her, watching her. Her eyes drifted over the floor, her face downturned and gaze averted. Lifting one hand, he set it against her cheek and gently urged her to look at him. She stubbornly refused to yield, so he curled his hand around her neck, applying light pressure with his thumb to the base of her skull. "Elissa."

She pressed the heels of her hands against her closed eyes. "I don't want to talk about it." Her hands muffled her words.

Bending, he kissed the top of her head and then returned to undressing her, tugging her skirts down her hips. Quite suddenly, she exploded away from him, jumping out of the pile of clothes, wearing only her chemise and smalls, and spun about. Anger made her cheeks splotchy, and tears brightened her eyes. "Did you _hear_ him?" she demanded. "Suggesting I was—was somehow _broken_ because—he asked if we have any plans to start a family or if we're just going to leave it to chance. To chance!"

Alistair watched her as she grasped her arms and began to pace. She dragged her fingers across her arms, leaving red marks in their wake, and he winced. "Don't listen to—"

"Could he be more obvious? He wants you to marry his daughter," she snapped, cutting him off. Her nails raked across her skin before she pressed her face into her hands, pausing her pacing only for a moment. She started up again, parting her fingers so she could see the floor, and shook with anger. "Or one of those thrice-tainted Pentaghasts!"

He opened his mouth, but she cut him off, whirling on him and jabbing her finger at his chest. "Don't you _dare_."

He fell silent, pulling back ever so slightly. Even in nothing more than a chemise, he doubted she was unarmed.

Her face fell, and the tears building in her eyes finally broke over her lids, spilling down her face. "Maybe you should."

He stared at her, not sure he heard her correctly.

"Maybe you should divorce me. Maybe if it was—if you were the only—that we're both Grey Wardens can't be helping." Her whispered words cut deeper than any blade, skewered his heart and built an unbearable pressure in his chest.

Moving slowly, approaching from the side so she could see him, he wrapped his arms around her and drew her against him. "But I love _you_."

"What if I can't give you an heir?" She wiped the tears from her cheeks with brisk, sure motions and pulled free of him. Her jaw set, she met his eyes, all unbending steel and strength. "Alistair, you should— _we_ should put aside our feelings and consider the fact that I may never—" Her voice hitched. "We can't leave Ferelden without an heir. You… you should take a lover."

"I— _what_?"

The world actually _rocked_ around him he was so stunned by her statement. Recoiling from her, he wheeled away and pressed his hand against the stone of the wall to brace himself. The cold of the stones set claws into his palm and crawled through his veins, but didn't get very far until his anger burned it away.

He couldn't articulate the anger. Couldn't form it into words. He wanted to yell, to shout at her, to demand _how dare_ she suggest that, that he was anything like Cailan, like his negligent father. That he would abandon her, after everything they'd gone through, because that was _exactly_ what taking a lover would be. He'd be telling her she wasn't good enough, wasn't enough for him. And practicality be _damned_ , he wasn't about to do that.

"You should—"

"No," he snapped, shooting her a glare over his outstretched arm. He pushed off the wall, angry energy burning through him. "I am _not_ my brother, and I'm not—no."

"Alistair, don't be ridiculous. Just because you—"

He jerked as though he'd hit her and cut her off. "Just because I love you? Just because? You're willing to trivialize all that?"

With a scream of anger, she flung herself at him, pulling her arm back to hit him. He caught the punch, twisted her in his arms and caught her body against him.

"I'm trying to _help_ you!" she shouted. She stomped on his toes, ineffectual as he still wore his boots.

"You're not." He bit out the words, holding her tight against him. Maybe, if he held her close enough, she would understand. His upset would simply soak into her skin, and she would realize how much the very suggestion of infidelity hurt him.

Maric and Cailan's unfaithfulness had caused _them_ no end of trouble.

"I—I _refuse_ to repeat the mistakes of m—of Cailan and my father." He pressed his mouth against her neck, inhaled the scent of her skin. "We have plenty of time to keep trying." He would remain undaunted, for her. "And—well." He laughed. "If I'm good enough for the throne, I'm sure Cailan has a bastard or two we could dredge out of the gutters."

Slumping, she let his arms take all of her weight, the fight draining out of her. "It hurts."

He tugged her back several steps and lowered them both into a chair. "I know." He saw the pain written across her face every time she came from Wynne. "But you don't have to bear it alone. It's just as much my fault." His mouth found the corner of hers, and he kissed her lightly, trying to reassure her. "I'll always be here."

* * *

The world was strange and blurred around the edges. Elissa touched the stone walls as she walked, fingers dragging over the smooth stone faces, wearing a curious expression. She knew there was something wrong with the walls, but she couldn't understand what.

The hallway ended in a door, and she pushed it open, walking into the royal suite.

Wooden figurines covered the floor, and she sighed. Not again. They were always leaving their toys on the floor.

A frown creased her brow.

Bending, she scooped up one and then another, setting them in the crook of her arm. She nearly tripped over a third.

"Momma!"

Elissa's head snapped up. Adrenaline coursed through her, momentary alarm, and then her arms were full of a little girl with golden blonde hair and beautiful blue eyes. Laughing, Eleanor pressed her face against Elissa's neck, and Elissa held her tight. All her love for her precious little girl made her chest constrict, her heart aching.

"Hello, beautiful."

Eleanor pulled back, beaming. "Guess what I did today!"

Taking both of Eleanor's hands, Elissa smiled. "What did you do?"

"I beat Rory in a duel!"

"Did you?" Laughing, Elissa took Eleanor by the waist and lifted her, spinning about in a circle. "Good for you!"

"Momma!" Elissa turned around, smiling at her son. He pouted, crossing his arms, looking so much like his father. "It _hurt_."

She clucked her tongue, setting Eleanor on her hip. "Is that how a warrior responds to another one putting him in the dirt?"

He huffed and turned up his nose. "No."

"How does a warrior respond?"

"He gets back up," he said, long-suffering and sighing. "And hits back harder."

"That's right." Elissa bent and set Eleanor on the floor. "You two go change for dinner. We have very important guests coming tonight, you know." Their eyes widened, mouths forming little o's. "Yes, yes, Grey Wardens from Weisshaupt. Now _go_."

With a little smile, she watched them hurry to their room, calling for Amethyne. She leaned back, knowing Alistair was behind her without having seen or heard him enter, and his arms came around her waist. His fingers laced over her abdomen, he set his chin on her shoulder.

"Hello," she said, leaning her cheek against his.

"Isn't this wonderful?" he asked, squeezing her lightly.

She nodded. "Mmm. Yes." But something wasn't right. She watched the children run across the doorway, and they were somehow blurry. They lacked something.

"Don't you want this?"

Fear squeezed her heart, and her eyes went wide. "Let go of me."

"Don't you want this? I can give this to you."

She shuddered in the demon's arms, pulling at its hands on her abdomen, trying to free herself. "Let _go_."

It held her tighter, dragging her against its body, and she saw her husband's lightly tanned skin turn an ugly shade of bruised purple. "Let's make a deal, slayer of Urthemiel. Make a bargain with me." It used Alistair's voice, and that made her sick.

Lurching into motion, she twisted free of the demon's hold and grabbed a sword off the wall. She remembered the Fade, remembered the rules it ran on, and she lifted the blade. "I will run you through," she hissed.

Clucking, the demon glided toward her, its hips swaying. Revulsion swept through her, and she lifted the blade higher. Heat at her back made her swing around. Two rage demons oozed from the room the children had run into, and horror made her skin crawl.

"But I can give you the children you want," the desire demon said, all but purring the words as it swayed closer.

Elissa swallowed her gorge, shuddering. "I will make _no_ deals with you."

"No? You will never bear children without outside help. Let _me_ help you."

She thrust the blade forward, stabbing at the demon. " _No!_ "

The demon vanished as its minions swarmed her, screaming.

Elissa twisted, slashing at them, her movements clumsy. She was no good with a single sword. Unbalanced and uncertain, she ducked under one of the rage demons as it attacked only to be struck in the back by the other.

Hissing, she stumbled to the ground. The dress didn't help, either.

Daggers. She needed her daggers.

Her fingers closed around the familiar hilts and she lurched to her feet, in light leather armor instead of the hampering skirts, and she lunged. Her blade caught the first in the throat, ripping through it. The demon fell back, gurgling, but didn't die until she leapt on it, driving her daggers through its skull.

"That's not nice," the desire demon purred, catching her face in its fingers. It tilted her chin up, and Elissa lashed out. One dagger drove into its eye, and when it fell back, screaming, it took her dagger with it.

Whirling, she sought out the second rage demon. With only one weapon, she knew every strike had to count. She couldn't waste her blows and leave herself open.

It lunged at her and she ducked to the side, gasping when its fire whispered over the skin of her back. The burn scalded her nerves, and she stumbled to the ground, trying to catch her breath and control the pain. She narrowly evaded the demon's next strike, trying not to think about what the fireball scorching the ground could have done to her face.

She lurched to her feet, feinting to the left. The demon, stupid thing it was, followed her feint, leaving itself open. She slashed it across the throat and then stabbed it through the chest, where a heart ought to have been. Readying herself for another blow, she drew back and the desire demon caught her about the waist.

It flung her about, dropping on top of her and holding her to the ground.

Her dagger was still in its eye.

"I am still willing to deal," it hissed, its hand sliding to her throat. "And I want so little from you."

Loathing turned Elissa's stomach – disgust at the demon, at herself for _wanting_ so much that she drew a demon's attention. She reached up, ripping the dagger from the demon's eye. Recoiling with a howl, it pressed its hands to its eye, blood dripping from the wound.

Elissa moved swiftly to her feet. Dropping her shoulder, she slammed into its stomach, and it fell back, moaning piteously. "Please," it begged, lifting one hand. Its good eye filled with something that might have been fear or remorse. "Let me go, and I won't bother you. Please, mercy, I—"

"Mercy?" Elissa scoffed and drove the dagger through the demon's neck. Yanking it free, she sliced across its throat, cutting so deep it could no longer speak. Blood bubbled from the wound and it made awful, gasping noises.

As it died, the dream faded, and she woke to hands on her shoulders, shaking her roughly. A body loomed over her, and her mind, unable to distinguish reality from dreams, recognized it as the desire demon – _how was it alive_ – masquerading as her husband. She snapped her head forward, connecting solidly with its nose.

It wheeled back with a roar of pain, and as she scrambled out from under it, it shouted her name. Throwing herself from the bed, she reached under the mattress for her daggers, her fingers closing around the family hilts.

As she surged to her feet, the tapestry over the door flew aside, and two well-armed men, weapons drawn, rushed in. The demon – was it? – on her bed shouted something at the men, and then it threw a robe over her shoulders, all in a single, fluid motion. Its hands were flesh colored, peachy and warm and rough from calluses. She stared at it – him – Alisair – and she—

He ordered the guards out, snapping at them. "Maker, she killed an Archdemon while I held back the horde; you'd think they'd trust us to take care of ourselves." He turned to her as ice swept through her veins, replacing the heat of adrenaline. Concern on his face, he ducked his head, watching her with worried eyes. "Elissa?"

There had been something in the demon's face, something unnatural and _other_ , too sharp features and alien eyes, that was missing in Alistair's. Relieved, she rushed into his arms, holding him tight about the waist.

His lips brushed her hair, and he gently unwound her arms from his body, plucking the daggers from her hands. He tossed them onto the bed and tugged her to the floor as he sat. Dragging her into his lap, hardly difficult as she went willingly, he curled around her, a wall against the world.

He didn't ask, didn't push, just sat with her until she finally spoke.

"A desire demon came to me." She whispered the words, as though speaking them too loud might bring it back to life and let it through the Veil.

He stilled, and she felt his tension in the arms around her body.

Guilt gnawed at her as she told him her dream, and her voice cracked at the end. But she refused to let herself cry. She forced back the tears as they burned her eyes, unwilling to display any further weakness.

"Elissa," he murmured against her hair. "Elissa, this—" He broke off, and his silence condemned her more than any words. Because, Maker, he was right. There was something wrong when her desire for a child brought a demon on her.

His mouth brushed over her cheek, his hands warm and steady and kind on her arms and back. "We'll find another way," he said. "And we'll put off the Bannorn. You—I don't want you to—" He sighed, the sound dredged up from somewhere deep within him. "Did I do this?"

She pulled away enough to stare at his face, so wrought with uncertainty. "What?"

"Did I… have _I_ put this pressure on you?" His expression broke her heart. Tenderness filled his eyes, made his features soft and beautiful. His hands cupped her face, his thumbs brushing back and forth over her cheekbones.

Shaking her head, she closed her hands over his wrists, anchoring herself to the world by holding him. "No, Alistair, no." She leaned forward, and he met her halfway, their foreheads touching. Their breath mingled in the space between their mouths, swirling and warm against her lips. She trembled just the slightest bit, overwhelmed by him and how much he cared. "This—it's hard to explain."

"Please," he whispered, "try." She understood. He _needed_ her to explain. "Is this an all-consuming obsession?" She couldn't fault him for the question.

"No, it's—" She sighed. "Having a child, _your_ child, would be a statement. This is how much I love you, that I would sacrifice the autonomy of my body for another. That I wouldn't be a warrior, a fighter, for nine months." She turned, kissing his palm. "They whisper in the halls, saying I'm your wife out of convenience, out of some plot the Wardens hatched to control Ferelden."

He snorted, and she echoed the derisive sentiment in a soft, baleful laugh.

"But I want… _I_ want to give you an heir. I want to make something, someone, between us, from us. I want to hold that child at my breast and know that our country has a future that isn't war and strife."

He moved forward, his lips touching her in the barest hint of a kiss. "Alright," he whispered. "But don't let this eat you up inside."

"I drove my knife into its eye and slashed its throat." She hoped he understood the significance of that.

Chuckling, he threaded his fingers through her hair. "That's my girl."

* * *

Alistair rubbed his forehead, trying to read another missive and comprehend it. The letter suggested more unease between Orlais and Nevarra, and mild unrest in Orlais itself, and he didn't have the patience or frame of mind to concentrate. Let both countries burn for all he cared.

Except that would be a bother for Ferelden.

Groaning, he dropped his quill into the inkwell and thanked the Maker, once again, for taking the Nevarran ambassador off his hands at last. Why the man thought it necessary to leave in early spring, when the mountain paths would still be impassable, Alistair didn't know. He didn't care. The man had been gone a day, and the mood in the palace was already considerably lighter.

Someone knocked on his door.

Eamon, more likely than not.

Stifling a groan, he lifted his hand to gesture him in before remembering the door was shut. "Come in," he called.

Elissa slipped in. Her face was curiously stiff, muscles taut and strained. She must have come from Wynne.

Rising, he circled around his desk, concerned. Maybe they should just stop trying. Maybe they should take a break from having sex to have a baby and—

His eyes narrowed. She didn't look _quite_ sad. The corners of her lips kept twitching like…

"Elissa? What is it?" He touched her cheek lightly.

She made a choked noise.

"We're done," he said quickly. "We'll stop. This is hurting you too—"

"Alistair." She pressed her hands over his mouth.

Was—was she _laughing_?

He made a muffled sound against her palm.

She leaned close, standing on her nose until her nose brushed his, and she gave him the most brilliant smile he'd ever seen. "Good work, Dad."

It took his brain a full minute to realize exactly what she'd said. And then they were moving, his hands on her waist as he picked her up and spun her, clutching her against him and laughing so hard his sides hurt. He put her down, caught her face in his hands, and kissed her fiercely. Then he spun her about again, laughing with her, holding her close.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Complications during childbirth, childbirth in general.

Alistair worried.

He worried at dawn, when Elissa rose and dressed. He worried when they broke their fast and when they heard grievances from their people. He worried when they ate supper and she danced with him. He worried while he reviewed letters and treaties and grants. He worried when they settled into bed at night with Rabbit at the foot of their bed, snoring loud enough to wake the dead.

For the first month, he could do little else. Eamon grew frustrated with him, and Wynne clucked after him. Even Elissa began to snap when he asked, for the fifth time, if she needed a pillow for her back.

And so he had an idea. Elissa could grumble at him; he was her husband. But she couldn't grumble at someone else, someone like Cauthrien.

Which was why the knight stood across from him, looking uncomfortable as he smiled and said, "It's the perfect solution and you know it. She won't grumble at you – you're her friend."

"With all due respect, Your Majesty, I don't think the queen will appreciate me hovering."

"Of course she won't." Alistair gave Cauthrien a stupid grin, the charming one, and she frowned. "But you're not going to hover." Her baffled expression turned to one of outright confusion. "You're her friend, aren't you?"

She bristled, the reaction he'd hoped for, and nodded once, a sharp gesture. "Yes." Her clipped tone belayed her annoyance.

"See? You're just looking out for your friend. She can't not appreciate that." Faultless logic. And, because it came as a request from her king, Cauthrien couldn't rightly say no.

"You're asking me to be her friend."

"I'm asking you to be her _concerned_ friend. Me? She'll yell at me if I hover. She'll probably stick me with one of those wicked hairpins of hers. But she can't do that to you." He tapped the top of his desk once. "I'm not asking you to follow her around and make her practice her cross-stitch. Just make sure she doesn't overexert herself."

Saying those words made his chest ache. Wynne had said she couldn't be sure the reason for Elissa's first miscarriage, but fighting darkspawn certainly hadn't helped. Keeping Elissa off her feet was a chore at any time and was made worse when she was explicitly told to rest.

"I will do my best, Your Majesty."

"That's all I can ask," he said with a smile.

* * *

Cauthrien found the queen in the alienage, sitting under a massive tree with several ageing elves, the eldest seated immediately to her right. Driscole and two other guards stood to the side. He shifted uneasily, his brows drawn and expression furtive.

Approaching from the side to avoid the line of elves waiting to speak with the queen – and Maker were there a lot of them, a whole line that wound around the center square, and more in the crowds at the edges – she settled beside Driscole. "Is she holding court?" she asked, a pensive frown on her face.

"Her Majesty received a letter this morning saying the elves have grievances they don't want to voice before the court."

"So she decided to come here and address these issues personally." Cauthrien sighed. "Is she safe?" At the very least, only four months along, she wasn't showing under the clothes she wore to stay warm.

"Their elder, Valendrian, likes her. His good opinion seems to inform theirs." Driscole rocked on his heels. "One woman called her a worthless shem."

"How did that go?"

"Poorly."

Cauthrien watched the queen tug her shawl tighter about her body and lean forward as she listened to a young elf explain the state of the orphanage.

"It's been better," she said, "but there are still too many leaky rooms, and we haven't been able to repair the roof as well as we'd like. This winter, several portions of it collapsed under the weight of the snow. Please, if you can help at all…"

The queen tapped her fingers against her lips. "What of your own carpenters?"

Ducking her head, the woman turned her face away. Cauthrien recognized the shame there and felt something almost like pity. "We have barely enough to feed the children, Majesty." The elf flinched when she spoke the title, as though acknowledging the queen's position caused her physical pain. "We… have no recourse but to ask for—for the crown's assistance."

"I'm unable to give _something_ for _nothing_ ," the queen said, lowering her hand to her lap. The elf slumped just the slightest bit, and Cauthrien only noticed because she was giving her so much attention. "However." Hope drew the elven woman straighter. "If the alienage produces eight volunteer bowmen and women, the crown will—"

The reaction was nearly immediate. Several elves in the crowd shouted wordless, angry protests. Cauthrien saw several hands inch toward weapons, and she, with Driscole at her side, stepped forward to flank the queen. The queen raised her hand to stop them, her gaze even as she regarded the crowd.

"You won't enslave our people again!" a voice called from the crowd, and other voices rose in agreement.

The queen looked implacable as she rose. "I wasn't aware asking for volunteers and paying them for their time counted as slavery. Don't forget: when Loghain was regent and _sold your people to Tevinter_ , I stopped the slavers. I stopped Loghain." The shawl she wore fell down about her shoulders, and Cauthrien couldn't help but read it as a dismissal, as if the queen said _I do not fear you. Do your best to me_.

Turning to Valendrian, the queen gave him a polite bow, according him more respect than most of the nobility would ever consider. "Thank you for sitting with me, Valendrian." She glanced toward the crowd. "Eight volunteers," she said again. "You have a month, no more."

She summoned her guard to her with a gesture, Cauthrien moving to her side as the others fell into place behind her. "My queen—"

"Not now." The queen's voice was firm and unyielding, brooking no arguments. She set a brisk pace through the city, Cauthrien at her heels, and only noticed her people waving when Cauthrien called her attention to them.

Though they didn't stop and the queen's pace did not slow, the news of the queen's decision reached the palace before they did. When they arrived, a boy barely old enough to shave, wearing the king's livery waited for them, fidgeting.

Giving the queen an awkward bow, he said, "The Arl of Redcliffe requests the queen's presence in His Majesty the King's receiving room."

The queen's hand went to her abdomen, where she wore a simple belt. Cauthrien recognized the apparent clip as the hilt of one of her smaller daggers. "Of course he does," the queen murmured. "Thank you. You may go." She glanced at the guardsmen behind her. "And you, too."

The men hesitated before Driscole grinned and said cheerfully, "If you want to be on the receiving end of Her Majesty's ire after her visit with the Arl, feel free to stay." He ushered them off with a wink at Cauthrien while the queen glared at his quickly retreating back.

" _Extra_ guard duty," she muttered.

"Hardly a punishment," Cauthrien said, tone brusque. "He enjoys it. Would you like me to delay this meeting?"

"Right now, I'd like to run a dagger between Eamon's ribs. But that's not exactly good politics." Rubbing the small of her back, the queen sighed. "Do you think this is about the elves?"

"Without a doubt." Cauthrien watched the queen sigh and pull her hands away from her back.

Exhaling heavily, she began walking. "Let's not put this off then."

They were silent, the clang of Cauthrien's boots against the stone floors creating the only noise in the stone hallway, until the queen abruptly stopped, a distant look on her face.

"Do you think it was a poor idea?" Cauthrien hesitated, and the queen pulled a face. "Shae. As my friend. Do you think I shouldn't have done that?"

Truthfully, Cauthrien didn't know what to think. She suspected there was a _correct_ answer to the qu—to Elissa's question, but she hadn't the slightest idea what it was. She didn't know if the queen wanted validation or correction, and the qu—Elissa's moods of late were swift to change.

"I'm not a politician," she finally said.

Elissa's lips twisted in a wry smile. "That's a very politic answer. Are you sure?" She sighed and pushed an errant curl out of her face. "The alienage needs help. But I can't… the crown can't simply _give_ it to them."

The weariness on Elissa's face troubled Cauthrien. She was not a woman fond of physical displays of affection and never had been. While Elissa was often too physically affectionate with her friends, giving them casual touches that were inappropriate for a woman of her station, Cauthrien preferred to keep her distance and offer quiet support. She might polish and oil Driscole's armor and weaponry one night or save an extra ration for Wilkes another.

But she reached out and placed her fingers on Elissa's shoulder, keeping the touch light. "You're a compassionate woman, and a queen can't afford much compassion."

"A monarch without compassion is a tyrant," Elissa said, her voice stark and eyes bleak.

Cauthrien's throat tightened. "Too much compassion is weakness. Too much indifference is cruelty." She drew her fingers away.

"It's easy to be a soldier." Elissa swayed toward Cauthrien but pulled back at the last minute. Her small smile was pained. "At least, in the sense that you know your direction. You fight, you stay alive."

"Isn't being a queen similar?" Cauthrien asked in an attempt to lighten the mood.

It didn't work. The queen's smile – for it wasn't Elissa looking at her from behind those cool grey eyes – was frigid. "Very."

The queen strode forward, purpose in each step, and though Cauthrien kept pace with ease, she noted how decisive the queen's gait had become. Resolute. It was oddly terrifying.

When they reached the king's receiving room, Cauthrien pulled the door open for the queen, and she entered with regal grace, head held high and gaze uncompromising. The smile blossoming on the king's face died as soon as his eyes met hers. "Elissa," he said, tentative.

"Alistair." There was warmth in her voice that didn't reach her eyes, and it vanished when she turned her attention to Eamon. "Arl Eamon."

The Arl gave the queen a tiny bow. "Your Majesty."

Cauthrien found it interesting how they arranged themselves. As a guard, she wasn't much more than a prop. While the king certainly noticed her, Arl Eamon hardly gave her a passing glance, and the queen, well. The queen treated her like an old friend, trusting Cauthrien at her back. Regardless of where she stood, Cauthrien knew that the queen knew exactly where she was.

But that didn't stop any of them from moving around her like she wasn't there. The king sat comfortably on a settee, one of his feet resting on a knee. Arl Eamon, who had been standing, moved toward a chair across from him. In a single, telling gesture, the queen swept into that chair and settled on it, curling her fingers around the armrests. The Arl's expression didn't change, and a slight adjustment of his course had him standing beside the king.

It was bizarre how they jockeyed for position.

"You realize, of course," Eamon said, with no warning or preamble, "that your decision to create an elven corps of archers cannot stand."

From behind the queen, Cauthrien couldn't see her face, but she saw her shift. The queen leaned an elbow on the arm of her chair and dropped her chin onto it, crossing her legs at the ankle and tucking her feet behind the chair's leg. It was a familiar pose, one the queen adopted in casual conversation with friends. And it could be viewed as nothing less than a dismissal of Eamon's opinion.

"Can't it?"

"It cannot."

The king looked distinctly uncomfortable, his hands laced in his lap, his thumb brushing back and forth over his fingers.

"Why?"

"The men and women of Denerim will perceive it as a slight, of course. You do yourself and the crown a disservice my claiming you need the help of elves." Eamon glance at the king as if expecting support. The king, in turn, seemed to find his hands captivating. "Are you suggesting Ser Cauthrien isn't a skilled enough warrior to protect you?"

Cauthrien's face remained impassive, but her stomach clenched. She didn't want to be dragged into the argument as a prop, but dared not say anything otherwise.

There was dry amusement in the queen's voice when she spoke. "I'm suggesting that Ser Cauthrien can't split an apple with an arrow at two hundred feet with a longbow." Her head tipped to the side. "Are you forgetting the turmoil the unrest in the alienage caused for Loghain?"

"I assure you, Your Majesty, that I forget nothing. But this path is ill-advised. If you want archers, look to the best of our own men, not to the elves." And, to Cauthrien's immense surprise, Arl Eamon gave the queen a sharp, shallow bow, and strode from the room.

The king lifted both brows and glanced at the queen with his head still ducked. "That could have gone worse."

She deflated, slouching over the arm of the chair. "It could have gone better. Eamon's right, of course. There's a fair number among the nobility who won't approve."

Pushing forward, the king went to his knees at the queen's feet. Cauthrien slowly, quietly, backed away, turning her back to them so they could have a moment's privacy. She let her thoughts wander toward nothing, affording the couple as much space as she could, and she flexed her aching left hand.

* * *

"Everyone's talking about the elves."

Cauthrien lifted her head, turning her face toward Driscole. He stood easily in the doorway to her room, leaning against the stone frame with a jaunty smile on his face. She rolled her eyes at the idiotic grin and unbuckled her baldric, carefully easing her greatsword from her back and setting it on her bed.

"I'd imagine."

He uncrossed his arms and strode into her small room. Of all the rooms given to the kingsguard, hers was the smallest, the most bare. She had few personal possessions, only one small trunk of clothes. The writing desk saw next to no use, and she had, on more than one occasion, considered chopping it into kindling or replacing it with another rack for her armor.

"How are the men reacting to it?" she asked, carefully setting her paulron beside her gauntlets on the bed.

Moving behind her, Driscole set himself to the stays of the mail yoke. "Surprisingly, not as badly as the nobility. Most of the men fought in the Battle of Denerim." He leaned against her as he reached around her neck to pull the yoke off.

She kept her silence but was incredibly grateful for the help. Her left hand shook and the muscles twitched and spasmed. The idea of getting out of her armor by herself, while easier than getting into it without help, didn't appeal to her.

"They remember the help the Dalish archers were. And they saw the alienage elves defend their homes."

"Until the Archdemon destroyed the bridge."

"Unfortunate, that." His hands moved to the leather straps holding her cuirass to her chest. "I heard Smithson say something about how all the damnable knife-ears are good for is stringing bows and shooting arrows." She felt the armor shift with his shrug.

Taking the weight of the front piece of plate in one hand, she plucked at the ties on her side with her trembling hand. "And you?"

"What about me?" He laughed. "I'm the dumb young one. No one cares about _my_ opinion. I'm only here so you have someone to shove on a knife if an assassin gets close enough." He helped her slip out of the chest piece and carried it to the armor rack, carefully fixing it onto the wireframe man.

"It doesn't bother you?"

"That the queen insists I stand shoulder to shoulder with elves? Not in the least." He leaned against the wall as Cauthrien stripped off the war skirt and tassets. "We all come into the world naked, bloody, and screaming, and that's how all warriors go out." He shrugged again.

She chuckled softly, picking up the armor still on her bed and moving it to the rack. He took a few of the pieces from her, and once everything was hung, produced a rag and vial of oil from the pouch at his side.

"I didn't know you were a philosopher," she said as they began to rub the oil into the joints of the armor. Some people found it easier to oil armor sitting. Cauthrien preferred it hanging.

"Had a lot of time to think."

Five years, she recalled. No one in the general ranks wanted to serve with him, but once the new king had been crowned, Wilkes had demanded a pardon for Driscole. It had been granted.

"And if having a team of elven archers at her back makes Her Royal Majesty feel safer, that's fine with me. Another wave of protection for us." He looked at her as he said it, and Cauthrien felt distinctly uncomfortable under the weight of his gaze.

They continued in silence, oiling the points of articulation in the armor and then the leather straps. When they were done, her left hand ached. She could barely close it, and no matter how she held it, she felt like Driscole _knew_ , that he could see her weakness.

"Wilkes wants to talk to everyone over dinner. Our dinner. Not the court's," he said, the comment off-hand at best.

"Oh?"

Nodding, Driscole capped and pocketed the oil. "Regarding how we're going to change our rotations now that the queen is pregnant."

Cauthrien's brows drew together slightly. "He thinks someone might take advantage?"

"He thinks there are people stupid enough to think she's not always armed and capable."

At that, Cauthrien laughed. "People who haven't seen her _throw_ one of her daggers. I feel bad for them."

"Then I'll see you at dinner?"

The odd note in his voice—she didn't quite know how to place it. It made her uncomfortable, her stomach rolling and twisting, but at the same time eased the worst of the tension in her neck and back. She licked her lips to keep a baffled frown from her face. "Of course."

* * *

Three weeks later, Cauthrien stood beside the queen, surveying the group of elven archers who had volunteered. There were only five, and Cauthrien could see from the queen's expression that she didn't know quite how to deal with that.

"They're the ones with nothing to lose," she said softly, fingers sliding over her stomach absently. It had taken the better part of an hour, but the king had eventually convinced the queen to wear light leathers instead of her more constricting dragonbone armor. "You can see it in their eyes."

Cauthrien hadn't expected anything less, and though the queen sounded resigned, she seemed to feel similarly.

One of the elves, a young girl, drew her bowstring to her ear and let her arrow fly. It arched too high, missing the top of the target by a considerable distance, and she swore.

"At least they came."

The queen sighed and nodded. "At the very least." She laced her fingers loosely over her abdomen, watching one of the older men take aim. "And, if nothing else, they can use longbows better than I can." A wry smile lifted her lips. "I think Eamon fails to realize what this will do."

Cauthrien stayed silent, waiting. Prompting the queen never seemed polite, though she took it well enough. When it was just them, just Shae and Elissa, that was different.

"We can't apologize for what was done to the elves." She shifted her weight, leaning away from Cauthrien, watching the elven man hit the center of the target. Twice. Her lips turned up, and that set Cauthrien at ease. "Not now. That would… it would minimize what was done." Her lips pressed together. "Humans took their home, their identity. And we think _words_ will make that better? My hope is that this… this will show people what the elven people can do. What they're capable of."

A pretty sentiment. The queen, Cauthrien knew, leaned heavily toward the idealistic. She liked to help, liked to fix. "At the risk of your own safety?"

The queen's eyes narrowed. "The hard thing about respect is that it has to _start_ somewhere, Ser Cauthrien. We can stand about and say we will respect the elves when they _deserve_ it, but we will never qualify what it means to _deserve_ respect so we can withhold it indefinitely. If you want respect, you must give it, and you must trust – and hope – that the recipient is honorable enough to return it."

Striding forward, the queen picked up a bow from the weapons rack and approached one of the elves. The man was not the eldest among them, nor the most skilled. If Cauthrien had to judge him, she would say he was good but wouldn't ever be anything more than that.

The queen stood beside him, setting her arrow against the bow. He watched her, looking startled by her presence at his side, as she drew the arrow back and released it. It flew wide, glancing off a tree at least ten feet away from the target.

The elf looked horrified, and Cauthrien, choking on a laugh, had to turn away for just a moment.

It took three more abysmal shots before the elf said, tentatively, "It would help if you held the bow a bit lower."

"Would it? Like this?" The queen lowered the bow far too much, took another shot, and sent the arrow into the ground about fifteen feet from the target. When the elf opened his mouth and hesitated, Elissa laughed. That sound brought the other four elves' attention to her and the young man, and she drew back her arrow and stood still. "Clearly, I'm not doing this right," she said, gesturing the elf closed with a nod of her head. "Show me how I'm supposed to stand."

He looked a bit stricken. "Y—Your—I'm—"

"You're better than me." She looked down the length of her arrow, and Cauthrien had to stifle another laugh as Elissa shifted her hold on both the bow and the arrow so much that the man blanched.

"No, no, that's—you're close, but—"

"Zevran and Leliana always said if Ferelden depended on a shot made from a longbow, I would condemn everyone to death." She lifted both brows. "Are you going to show me how this works?"

He hesitated a moment longer before moving all at once, adjusting Elissa's hold on the bow with quick efficiency. The other elves watched, silent and a bit wary, but Elissa never snapped, never took offense to anything Eadan did. And when the king stepped into the training yard several hours later, they actually seemed at ease.

"This looks like it's going well." He watched the elves correcting Elissa's hold as he settled in place at Cauthrien's side.

"Your Majesty."

He gave her a quick smile, his eyes on his wife as she released her arrow. She hit the center of the target, and the youngest of the two women – Saxa, wasn't it? – clapped her on the shoulder.

As the queen lowered her bow with a smile, she noticed her husband. Her face brightened immediately, and she called, "Did you see?"

"And where was _that_ skill during the Blight? Could have saved both of us some scars."

Elissa's brows shot up, but the smile didn't leave her face. "Oh, would it have?"

Cauthrien found the elves' sudden uncertainty amusing, and she felt just a bit bad for them. The casual familiarity with which the king and queen conducted themselves in front of everyone _but_ their formal court could be unnerving.

"If everything _died_ by the time I got to it…" He gave a long suffering sigh and a weary shrug. "But what else did I exist for other than taking hits for you?"

A wicked grin appeared on Elissa's face. "I can think of a few things."

"Can you now?"

With a gleeful cry, Elissa ran at him. Cauthrien rolled her eyes as she stepped out of Elissa's way.

The king caught his wife in his arms, spinning her once before slipping an arm under her legs and cradling her against his chest. He gave her nose a kiss. "You smell _terrible_."

She stuck out her tongue, and Cauthrien wondered how thoroughly crushed the elves' conceptions of the king and queen were. " _You_ smell like perfumed courtiers."

"Someone has to entertain them while you have all the fun, shooting pointy sticks."

"Well, and maybe you should take me for a bath."

The king's eyes sparkled. "My lady, I would be _honored_ to see you to your bath."

As they vanished into the palace, the queen laughing in her husband's arms, the elves turned to Cauthrien with wide, stunned eyes.

"Yes," she said, watching Wilkes' shadow peel away from the wall and follow the couple. "They're always like that. No, they don't care who they're around. Now, if you'll follow me, I'll see you back to your rooms."

* * *

Alistair slid his hand over his wife's slightly rounded belly as they lay in bed, curled behind her. His thumb brushed over a puckered scar, the result of a genlock's arrow, and he lifted his head to kiss the back of her neck.

She sighed in the dark, scooting closer to him.

"Have you thought about names?" he asked, nuzzling her hair. Damp from their bath, it smelled of their soap, sharp and bitter.

"Oh. No. Not really," she replied, shifting onto her back. She stretched her arms over her head, and he tugged her closer. One of her arms came down behind his head, resting lightly on his shoulder, and he rolled onto his back, pulling her onto him. "Should we?"

She sounded small and afraid, and he pressed his lips to her forehead in the dark. "You're five months along now, aren't you?" He felt her nod, her curly hair shifting against his chest. "Then, yes."

"What if—"

He silenced her with a kiss, unable to bear the thought. He didn't want to think about what would happen if they lost this baby. It would hurt him, but not nearly as much as it would crush her. She hated failure, and he hated seeing her crushed by it. Memories of their experiences in Orzammar tightened his jaw.

"What about Bryce?" he asked.

"Alistair…" She sighed before relaxing against him. Her fingers followed the line of his arm, dancing over his palm before curling around his hand.

She didn't want to get attached, and he understood that. But she didn't seem to realize she already _was_ attached. He saw her in the bath, standing, silent, with her hands on her abdomen, gently touching, a small smile on her face.

"Eleanor for a girl?"

With a quiet laugh, she pushed at his shoulder, the lightest pressure. "Why are we naming _him_ after my family?"

"Him?" Alistair peered in her direction, unable to make out her features in the darkness. "Incorrect, my lady wife." His hands slipped down the curve of her back and settled on her waist. "We will have a daughter." His lips found her cheek, peppering her skin with tiny kisses. "With your beautiful blue eyes and your nose."

She smothered a sound of annoyance. "My nose. Of all things, my _nose._ "

"It's a lovely nose," he murmured against her. His lips found the tip of her nose and he kissed it before turning his head to touch his mouth to hers.

With a grumble, she pulled away from his mouth, and he let her go, knowing better than to chase her when she made that particular sound. "No, I think we'll have a son, my lord husband." Humor suffused her voice once again, and she settled her head on his shoulder.

"A son?"

"With your golden eyes and honey blonde hair."

Alistair laughed. "Hopefully not. I wouldn't wish my looks on anyone."

Her fingers walked over his chest. "Then we'll have to have both."

"Both?"

"A boy who looks like you and a girl who looks like me."

He was grateful for the darkness that hid his face, knowing he wouldn't be able to keep his expression blank. Closing his eyes, he swallowed his pain. He knew they'd never have a second child, and he wasn't sure what made her say it – that she was so sleepy, that it was something she truly wanted, that she was simply attempting to placate him.

"Love?"

"Mmm?"

"You never gave me any ideas for names." His tone was light, teasing, and he pinched her gently on the hip.

Swatting at his hand with a tired, heavy arm, she grumbled against him. "I'll know when he comes."

He chuckled. "He?"

"Mmm. A boy. I know."

Sliding his hands up her back, he slipped one into her hair. "And how do you know?"

"Just do." And then she was asleep, breathing softly against him as he stared into the darkness above his head and contemplated what it might be like to have a little boy.

* * *

A letter arrived for her in Haven with the first snows, and Leliana read it with greedy eyes. Elissa's tight, compact script detailed the woes of court life, the trials of being Warden-Commander and queen, and a very interesting story of five elves serving as a corps of archers, a personal guard retinue. They'd added two more to their number, Elissa wrote, and Arl Eamon had finally stopped dogging her about the decision after the youngest among them put an arrow through an assassin's eye.

The letter ended with an invitation to the palace, one Leliana read as more of a plea. So she made her excuses to the Chantry – not that they would deny her the right to visit her friend, the Queen and Hero of Ferelden – and left. The journey from Haven to Denerim wasn't particularly long, but the snow made it tedious and added two days.

At the palace, she was escorted to one of the queen's private sitting rooms by congenial young man. He held the door for her, and she stepped in.

"Elissa!" Her surprise couldn't be contained. She had expected to wait several hours for her friend's attention. Instead, they met in the middle of the room in a tight embrace.

Or, rather, as tight an embrace as Elissa's very pregnant body would allow.

"Look at you!" Leliana exclaimed, leaning back to give Elissa a thorough once over. "How far along are you?"

Elissa's eyes crinkled, her smile brightening her very pale, very drawn face. Leliana knew little of childbearing, but she could see how tired her friend was. "Seven months now." She placed one hand on the small of her back and gestured for Leliana to take a seat on one of the settees. "And ready to be done." She sighed and settled herself on another chair.

Her two shadows shifted with the queen, the pretty human with the expressionless face taking up his station behind the queen's seat. The elven woman glided around the room until she stood near the door.

"It is that bad?" Leliana asked.

Elissa laughed dryly. "It's exhausting. I eat even _more_ now, if you can believe it."

"Not really. You already ate enough to feed a small army." Leliana reached across the space between them to take Elissa's hand. "But it is not enough?"

Elissa touched her face. "I look that awful?"

"You look very tired."

"I am." She sighed again, shaking her head with a soft laugh. "But I don't want to talk about myself."

Leliana clucked. Elissa never wanted to talk about herself, and she would have none of it. "I want to hear all about your baby. Have you decided on a name?" She released Elissa's hand but didn't straighten. It felt odd to talk to her old friend from the comfort of overstuffed chairs instead of on the ground across a campfire. "Has Alistair built a cradle?"

Elissa choked. "He _tried_. Once. The craftsman's guild won't have him back. They said he can chop the wood for the cradle and they'll fashion it into something workable. He nearly put a nail through his foot."

"His foot?" Leliana wasn't surprised, though, not really.

"At least twice." Pressing her fingers to the bridge of her nose, Elissa chuckled. "How's Haven? Are you able to deal with the influx of pilgrims?"

The change in subject was abrupt, but not unexpected. "It is not so hard as we thought. The Chantry has cleared a path up the mountain now, and is restoring the chapel at the base. And many of the pilgrims who come are willing to help. It was a good thing you did, to let people know of the Urn."

"At least I did one thing right." Leliana watched Elissa lean back on the small couch, rubbing her hands over her stomach, a frown on her face. When Elissa noticed her staring, she wrinkled her nose. "Kicking."

"Oh, she kicks?"

"He." Elissa gestured her over. "Would you like to feel?"

"You don't mind?"

"Of course not."

Leliana shifted to the couch beside Elissa and, while watching her guard with a wary eye, placed one hand on her belly. She waited a few seconds before glancing at Elissa and saying, "I don't feel anything."

Elissa rubbed the side of her stomach. "Just wait a second. He's usually very acti—ah." She pressed her lips into a thin line and Leliana gasped with delight.

"I felt him!"

"He's stepping on my bladder."

Leliana laughed, shifting her hand to follow the strange feeling of tiny feet on the other side of Elissa's skin. "That must not be comfortable."

"No. It's not." She let out a heavy sigh. "But I'm used to it."

Another kick connected with the side of Elissa's stomach, harder than the first, and Leliana drew her hand back. "Does it hurt?"

Elissa made a face and rubbed small circles where the baby kicked. "It… sometimes? It's hard to explain. It's strange, that's all." She smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "I'm glad you're here. How long do you think you can stay?"

With that question, Leliana knew all was lost. From any other person, the question wouldn't have had any deeper meaning. From Elissa, it was a plea to stay framed as politely and innocuously as possible. "Through winter," Leliana said. "It would be foolish to travel the roads when they are so impassable, yes?"

"We did it once."

"With Morrigan to melt the snow drifts—"

"Oh, remember how much she _hated_ that?"

"—and the boys to carry all our things. Yes! Her face would screw up like this." Leliana wrinkled her nose and narrowed her eyes, pinching her lips together, and Elissa burst out laughing, a genuine laugh to replace the strained smile. "And she would say things like… oh! Tis not a responsible use of my magic to melt paths through snow."

"And Wynne would give her _that look_."

"Yes, the one that could freeze a fire in a scorching desert! And then they would spend the rest of the day glaring at each other, Morrigan going on at length about how Wynne was just a dog for the Chantry."

Elissa, laughing still, pulled a pillow into her lap and held it to her chest as she wiped a tear from her eye. "And Sten would just _glower_. Do you remember—"

"The time you asked—"

"And his—"

They couldn't stop laughing. Leliana could barely breathe, and Elissa looked like she might fall off the couch. When she glanced at the guard behind Elissa's shoulder, he had a mildly amused expression on his face. The elf shifted from foot to foot, looking anywhere in the room but at them.

When they finally sobered, Elissa shook her head. "Sometimes, I miss those days. They were easier in some ways."

"Do you think so?" Leliana didn't. The uncertainty of their futures, the constant danger—she hadn't liked it at all. But Elissa, Leliana had learned quickly, loved a challenge, and that was how she had viewed the Blight: an adversary to be beaten.

"It was simple. Raise an army from among the elves, the humans, the dwarves, and kill the Archdemon." She released yet another heavy sigh. "Now, I dance around the nobility, trying to keep them happy, which is impossible."

"You can't please everyone," Leliana agreed, but she knew Elissa would try.

"They're still mad at me for my archers."

"I cannot imagine the uproar."

Awkward silence fell between them; the gulf, Leliana supposed, formed by months apart. A glance from Elissa at her guard had him take several steps away from them, and Leliana suddenly found Elissa much closer, her expression stark and unguarded.

"I'm scared, Leli," she whispered, her hand sliding over the cushions until her fingers met Leliana's. Closing her eyes and tipping her face toward the floor, she trembled. "I can't lose this baby, but I'm so scared I will."

"He will not love you less."

"It's not Alistair I'm worried about. I—" She took a deep breath. "He needs an heir, and if I—I'm scared for him. For me. I wake up in the middle of the night thinking the baby is dead." Her voice hitched and her throat tightened, the tendons stretching her skin.

Not knowing what to say, Leliana gave Elissa's hand a squeeze. "I'll be here for you." She leaned forward and let her forehead rest against Elissa's. Elissa's eyes were closed, but little droplets of water collected on her lashes.

They were silent again, but it wasn't awkward this time. Like in a song where a rest was meant to reinforce the story, the silence was meant to let Elissa know she was _there_. Words could be empty, paltry things – who better knew that than one who shaped them to manipulate? – when presence was the only thing needed.

"Thank you," Elissa finally said, pulling back. The tears were gone, and her face was a mask of composure. "Now. What do you say to a visit to the market?"

* * *

Winter dropped blankets of snow across Denerim, impassable, thick and heavy. Leliana spent her days huddled with Elissa in the warmest rooms of the castle, wrapped in thick wools, spinning stories for her friend. Elissa grew increasingly restless, which only fueled Wynne's displeasure, and by midwinter, tensions ran high in spite of every attempt to keep the atmosphere in the palace relaxed. Wynne insisted it was necessary for Elissa and her pregnancy, and Elissa would snap back that she wasn't a delicate, wilting flower before storming off.

Alistair slinked after her one particularly cold evening, giving Wynne and Leliana apologetic smiles before he vanished around the doorframe.

"That baby," Wynne muttered, stabbing at the food on her plate, "cannot come quickly enough."

"It is a shame that Zevran will not be here," Leliana said, trying to keep the tone conversational. There was, she thought, something passing between Elissa and Wynne that no one else knew, and that was, more than anything, the reason for Wynne's displeasure. She was curious, but not enough to press. It would come out eventually. "Elissa said she sent a letter to him at the same time she did to me."

Wynne made a noncommittal noise.

"Perhaps he still runs from the Crows?" Again, Wynne offered only a quiet grunt as a response, pushing a piece of lamb across her plate. "And Oghren. I thought he would be here. But he is at Amaranthine, yes?" Clearly, Wynne wasn't interested in conversation. But the sense of foreboding hanging over Leliana's head compelled her to speak, to wash away the uncertainty with idle talk. "Have you—"

"Wynne!"

Startled by the intense shout, so full of terror and fear and hope, Leliana nearly dropped her goblet. One of the kingsguard – Ser Cauthrien, wasn't it? – burst into the room, her eyes wide, and Wynne was already on her feet, striding with purpose toward the door.

It was strange, Leliana thought, as she, too, rose quickly to her feet, how they all knew exactly what was going on from that single call.

They found Alistair and Elissa on a flight of stairs, Elissa bent at the waist, one hand on her stomach and one hand clutching Alistair's shirt.

Wynne went to her without hesitation while Ser Cauthrien hung back with Leliana, looking uncomfortable.

"It's hard, isn't it?" Leliana asked softly, pitching her voice under Wynne's urgent questions and Elissa's snapped replies. "Being a warrior in a situation like this?"

"I can't imagine how her husband feels."

"You care for her a great deal." Cauthrien looked at her with a startled expression. "We all do."

Cauthrien hesitated. "I never thought… she is my friend as well as my queen. It's my duty to protect her as a member of the kingsguard."

Leliana touched Cauthrien's shoulder. "Being here is enough, I think."

Elissa shrieked, and Leliana turned in time to see Alistair swing her into his arms. She looked aggrieved. "Put me _down_ , Alistair, I can walk on my—" She broke off, wincing and gritting her teeth. "Bed. Now."

They moved with purpose, Leliana watching Cauthrien lead the way down the hall as Wynne, keeping pace with Alistair's strides, gave Elissa strict commands. Following behind, feeling out of place, Leliana flinched every time Elissa's voice faltered. When they reached the royal suite, Wynne sent Cauthrien to fetch a midwife.

She gave Leliana a severe look. "Allow _no one_ entry." The door shut.

The two guards stationed outside the door, a human swordsman and an elven bowman, drew their weapons, and Leliana's brows arched. "Do you expect a battle?"

The human man laughed. "If I am sharpening my sword when the nobility begins to gather, I'm not threatening them, am I?"

"And I am only examining the fletching on this arrow and making sure my bowstring is taut."

A smile crinkled Leliana's eyes. "Clever."

Ser Cauthrien returned several minutes later, clattering down the hallway at a brisk pace, the midwife at her side. Leliana opened the door for both, but only the midwife entered. And she was thankful for that. Arl Eamon appeared at the end of the hall not a moment after the door shut.

"Ser Cauthrien," he said, ignoring Leliana entirely as he stepped toward them. Leliana twisted her hand, the motion releasing the dagger hidden in her sleeve. Its hilt fell into her palm, and she felt better almost immediately, its weight a reassurance.

"Arl Eamon." Ser Cauthrien stood like a wall in front of the massive door, flanked by a man sharpening his sword in steady, even strokes, and an elf testing the elasticity of his bowstring. "How are you this evening?"

His expression clouded. "The queen is in labor? I demand entry."

"Wynne has forbidden it," Leliana said, moving to Ser Cauthrien's side.

"It is required that a member of the court—"

Elissa's scream cut him off. It was a terrible sound, digging knives of fear into Leliana's spine. She had heard cries like that before. She could remember a woman who died, her child turned wrong in the womb, screaming just like that.

"If Enchanter Wynne has forbidden entry to the royal suite," Ser Cauthrien said softly in the silent wake of the scream, "perhaps she has her reasons. I'm sure the queen doesn't need the stress of an audience."

The Arl didn't argue with that. He took several steps back, but he didn't leave. Instead, he paced the length of the hall.

Other members of the court in residence trickled into the hallway, and Leliana watched them with mounting irritation. But there was no reason to turn them away; Elissa and Alistair were unaware of their presence, and if it mattered to Wynne, she would have said something. At the very least, as the hour grew later, many of them dispersed. Arl Eamon remained, along with a few others, but toward dawn, even they left.

As the sun climbed into the sky, only Arl Eamon remained, and Leliana had to wonder at Elissa's dislike for the man. She understood on one level: the Arl was a man with an agenda. He had a plan. But there was _real_ concern written on his face, and he paled at each of Elissa's cries. His concern, surely, was genuine.

Ah, but was it concern for Elissa or concern for the Ferelden monarchy.

Perhaps Elissa's distaste was not so misplaced.

Sometime close to noon, they heard a newborn's shrill cry.

Leliana bolted upright from where she dozed against the wall, suddenly wide awake as expectant joy coursed through her.. A baby – a _baby's_ cry sounded again, and a third time, and she turned toward Cauthrien and the guards, her heart full to bursting with happiness.

None of them spoke, none of them moved but to turn toward the door, waiting for Alistair or Wynne or someone to come out, to bring the news. Leliana felt a burning, desperate energy, wanting nothing more than to bound into the room and rush up to her friend, to hug her and congratulate her and tell her _see, you did it!_

The door opened, and Wynne stepped out.

Arl Eamon moved toward them as Ser Cauthrien straightened and stepped away from the wall. Haggard, with dark circles under her eyes, Wynne reached for Leliana, ignoring the three guards and the Arl.

Leliana's breath caught in her throat, and when Wynne met her eyes, she knew. She _knew_. And all that joy, all that furious, beautiful joy, died, too.

* * *

"Let me see him."

Alistair brushed his wife's sweat-slicked hair from her face as the midwife wrapped the now quiet child in thick blankets.

"Please, Alistair—"

"Shh, love." He pressed a kiss to her pale skin, trying to soothe her, to calm her. She shook in his arms, but her skin was so cold. "It's fine." Lying to her hurt.

There was too much blood. Far, far too much blood. The look on Wynne's face when she'd given the child to the midwife, when she'd held her hands over Elissa's abdomen and her magic had filled the room. Wynne stood away from the bed, now, one arm wrapped around her waist and one over her mouth.

Silent, the midwife brought their son to their bedside, and Alistair helped Elissa sit up, moved her arms and cradled her in his own as the midwife gave the baby to her to hold.

He couldn't see her eyes, but he _felt_ the change in her. All the tension left her, and she sighed. "He's beautiful," she whispered as the baby let out an indignant shriek. She freed one of her hands, grabbing at Alistair's arm.

Her grasp was weak, her fingers barely closing around his wrist.

"Alistair." Her voice shook.

"I'm here," he whispered against her hair, tears burning his eyes. Where was the joy? Where was the excitement? His heart pounded in his chest, equal parts bleak, black despair and boundless love, and he didn't know—couldn't understand—

She said something, her tremulous voice weak, something he didn't hear.

"Elissa—"

"Duncan."

She exhaled the name against his cheek , her fingers brushing over their son's forehead as he made a quiet, gurgling sound. His feet kicked at the blanket wrapped around him as he twisted in his mother's arms.

And Alistair. Alistair didn't know what to do. What to say. How to feel.

So of course he said something stupid. "You _hated_ Duncan." He tried to laugh, but the sound caught in his throat.

Maker have mercy. Why was he _laughing_?

Because, he realized as he held his wife and she _died_ in his arms, as she held his son who was only _just_ starting to live, there was nothing else to be done.

There were no words to make it right.

There was no feeling that could be justified.

As the world surged around them, as it moved and pulsed and _lived_ , he was helpless.

He curled around her as she exhaled one last, final time. He held her arms around their son, around _Duncan_ , rocking them both back and forth. And Duncan, as though realizing something was wrong, began to cry, and Alistair envied his son so much in that moment, because he couldn't even do that.


End file.
